


Piper At the Gates of Dawn

by ToasterBonanza



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek - Various Authors, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: And You Accidentally Uncover War Crimes, Complicated Relationships With One's Self and Others, Dominion War, Don't Worry Sexy Stuff Happens too, Espionage, Gen, Intergalactic Cold War, Learning What The Worst Could Happen, Lots and Lots of Fraud, Love Drugs and Rock and Roll, M/M, Music Nerds, Musicologists, Not starfleet, Occupation of Bajor, Other, Parents and Children, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Foursome, Post-Canon, Section 31, Self-Exile, Spies & Secret Agents, T'hy'la, The power of friendship, When You Go Looking For Music, in over their heads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2018-12-10 09:30:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 28,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11688837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToasterBonanza/pseuds/ToasterBonanza
Summary: One was his father's pride, and one was his mother's joy; one was born an iconoclast, and one was born a war crime. Chance brought the four of them together. Their love of music built their friendship. And their arrogance nearly cost them their lives.





	1. At the Conference, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you are reading this, thanks! 
> 
> I won't waste too much here for now. I hope, dear reader, you will like this. I love comments and this is an ongoing work, so the feedback I get will probably end up in the story. I don't have a beta-reader so apologies if it's a little messy. I'm writing this mostly for me and another friend. I'm also going to keep the chapters short-ish. 
> 
> I guess all that really matters here is that I wanted to write something optimistic without pulling punches.

“Sorry, what was your name again?” The chatter of excited artists and academics drowned out all but the most enthusiastic voices. A constant hum and buzz always accompanied the Talas Music Conference, a crackling of raw creative energy in the air. Andor's Academy always took great pains to stage a deeply fulfilling conference for the hundreds of performers and presenters, but this time they had outdone themselves; both the Academy and the conference had completed a long cycle, making fertile ground for a jubilee festival. The likes of an unknown musician getting a performance slot was normally difficult and this time downright impossible. It could make said unknown feel too uneasy to make decent conversation.

 “Oh you.” The Betazoid academic gently patted the musician's shoulder. “It hardly matters.” Flamboyancy never escaped this species, evidence by the flourish of a decorated hand which waved away the question. “Come meet my colleague.”

 Through the crowd they wove, deceptively-strong fingers firmly curled around his bicep and tugging him along. They skirted dozens of small banquets available for the attendants, a cacophony of smells accosting them. Courtesy was different here and nothing like on Qo’Nos; people drop their culture's mores about personal space. His guide apologized to no one, and not a single attendant took offense.

 Out on a domed verandah, the crowd thinned considerably as did the noise. It was only the first day of the conference, as good a time as any to meet new colleagues and new connections. Like every domed balcony, this one served as yet another art installation. The placard nearby declared the dark swirling patterns above an interpretation of a cloudless night based on the artist's dream. Just like stepping into a painting. If someone came from behind and stabbed him to fulfill a once-forgotten blood oath, he'd thank them for letting him see something so majestic and breath-taking in his final moments.

 “My colleague and collaborator, Vudic.”

He never thought such a blue could exist outside of art, like someone had taken the entire sea and poured it into this man's two eyes.

“Your name, sir.” His tone indicated that he had already asked once.

“Doh'Val.” He hastily added, “Son of Carl.” A Vulcan. The day was hardly over and he was speaking to a Vulcan, a species his own people had warred with on and off for centuries, whether on their own or as the Federation. He never expected to meet one.

Those eyes that he could write opera about narrowed for a second and then widened carefully. He detected something unusual in his name. “...Carl.”

Doh'Val set his jaw, ready to teach the man a lesson that snide remarks to a half-Klingon are still snide remarks to a Klingon. “Yes. My father.” A reminder that his people also considered insults of one’s direct family extremely offensive.

The man paused. “I have a uncle by the same name. Mother's family.”

The last thing he expected to hear. A half-Vulcan with a half like his--human. What were the odds? “Are you--”

Some other attendant butted in, greeting Vudic and taking away his attentions for a second. The Betazoid, meanwhile, pulled Doh'Val a few steps away. “Well? I say this is going quite well for everyone involved. You two have a lovely time. Keep an eye on my colleague for me.” How well could it possibly be going? From his recollection, they had only exchanged their names.

And suddenly they were back facing each other. Now he had a few moments to evaluate the man before him. There was something so reassuring and familiar about his face despite the angular Vulcan features and pointed eyes. “Have we met? You are—I, forgive me; I have seen your face, I think.” His skin didn't possess the same sickly pallor expected from his species, a feature which only added to Klingon stereotypes about them: they sat around all day, thinking empty thoughts and never raising a finger to do even an ounce of hard work. Not this man. A healthy, light terra-cotta brown like the hilt of his mother’s ceremonial knife. His short black hair curled, creating a wave-like fringe around his face.

“If you have come to the conference before, you must have seen a presentation of mine or merely saw me in passing.” But those intense, narrow eyes wandered up and down. His tone wasn't dismissive; he too probed his memory in an attempt to place where they had met.

“This is my first time at the Academy. I am performing as part of the conference.” He twirled a lock from his trim beard around his finger. “Are there recordings of your lectures?” Could a hologram ever attempt to imitate those eyes?

“Only those which I have given here. They are not widely distributed like lectures from the Riza Conference Series, however; the Academy has agreed to only provide them to individuals upon request and at the consent of the lecturer or performer. I would have recognized your name.” A slight turn of his stoic mouth indicated disappointment. Thus far, he'd yet to find the moment when they'd met before. “You must travel to Earth often. Your father, yes?”

“Earth is very large.” He smirked. “You can calculate the odds of us meeting once and then once again here.”

He didn't expect a chuckle but not a deadpan response either. “I could but it would be neither useful nor _frumple_.”

Perhaps he had misheard? Doh’Val tried to form a response, wondering what he meant by that last word.

Those narrow, painted eyes closed for a moment. The man was embarrassed. Or perhaps mildly frustrated. “The computer translators here—” He stopped, glancing away as if he'd find the words he wanted written on the swirling ceiling. “May we move to the Free Talking Solarium?”

As they walked, he raced through all possible languages they might share. He didn't even know “Long Life and Good Health” or whatever it was all of them said. Did the man know Klingon? Some common trade language? Vulcans always seemed so consumed with their own culture that to think one would bother learning anything about another culture—

“This is a calibration. Please respond if you understand.”

He stepped back, catching himself from the shock. “You speak Federation Standard?” The moment the sentence left his mouth, he realized how stupid it sounded. That he _also_ spoke it was much more notable.  

The man tilted his head like a small dog. “Your manner of speaking. What language did you learn first?”

“Klingon. Eh, my father is Nepali, so I learned his words next. Federation Standard is my third.”

“Did the children on your planet ever ridicule you for how you spoke?”

What a strangely personal question. “For a time. A few punches and the teasing stopped.”

Practiced stoicism responded. “How very good for you.” He saw behind that measured face was a deep well of emotion. The human side, no doubt. Vulcans complain all too often about the emotional dramatics of humans, and he could only imagine the war at play when the two species are occupying the same body. How curious that the human part of this man threatened to unleash a volcanic temper was the same which gave Doh'Val gentility and patience.

Silence between them. Others prattled on everywhere else. “There is a flavor to how a someone speaks their natural tongue which translators hide. I like it.” The man's distinct accent must have been confusing the computer. A strange concoction of Vulcan-ish and something not too different from his father’s tongue--not Bengali--maybe Punjab? He couldn't tell and didn't want to ask just yet. It came through so clear in his speech. Doh'Val wanted to hear more, and he was quickly learning how to flatter the man.

“A pluralistic view, not one shared by many.” The tightness showed his restraint to say more. “Tell me about what you plan to perform here.”

“A series of short pieces based on ancient sacred music from Earth. Few recordings are here today because the style was only practiced in monasteries and no one outside the monastery was allowed to hear it. A blend of my dual heritage.” He felt his fluency falter for a moment. “I am interested in the challenge. We want to preserve certain forms of music, but these are forms that the culture only allows certain people to hear, let alone learn. We have to balance both considerations.” Convincing his family’s patron to let him perform his compositions for the conference was easily one of his greatest accomplishments to date.

“Fascinating.” That sounded like the closest he would ever hear to high praise. “What do you wish to convey in these pieces?”

He was talking too much. Answer the question quickly. “I think I could better explain if you came to the performance.”

“I expect that I will find the experience enlightening.”

The Betazoid appeared once more and got a few words out before remembering where they were. Oh no. There must be some way to get rid of this man. “We go,” he said with such a heavy accent that Doh'Val could barely make out the words.

“My apologies, but my colleague and I must depart.” Was that the sound of remorse?

They started away. No, no, don't go. Doh'Val found himself shouting, “Please join me for dinner!”

All the conversations in their vicinity ceased for a second, conference attendants suddenly turning their attentions. Curiosity, apprehension, amusement. Maybe they were waiting for a fight to break out. The silence pained him.

Vudic made some odd gesture, and suddenly everyone turned and went back to their business. “I cannot join you this evening. However.” He pulled out a small, intricately decorated token. “This is one place where lecturers gather. The organizers found these were the easiest way to tell us where we can refresh ourselves. After the lecture series ends each day, you will find us there. You can expect us tomorrow.”

They left. The crowd closed in behind them. He tucked the token into the breast pocket of his leather vest; it was the closest one he could find to his heart.


	2. At The Conference - Part 2

The symbols next to the entrance matched those on the token. The doors slid open before he was ready, revealing a dimly-lit lounge with tiny lights on a deep black ceiling. Andorians must miss the stars. Blue, green, and purple light came from the underside of the tables and bars while soft red light emanated from the tabletops. The lighting, however, was the least interesting part of the lounge. Each piece of furniture was a unique sculpture, but the collection together gave the impression of standing among nebulae. Was it possible to be dizzy and lucid at once? More conference goers, more performers. Music played underneath the murmurs, and he quickly realized that it was in fact just a few musicians playing together for fun. He should've brought his drum.

Vudic and his friend sat dead center in the room. “I see you have found us at last. I am Dr. Dael Gwargas in case you forgot, but Dr. Dael I prefer,” said the Betazoid. He didn't wait for a reply before turning to flag down a server. 

“I take it you have found the conference most informative thus far.” In the red light, the Vulcan’s eyes were the color of a fresh bruise. “You perform tomorrow, as I understand from the schedule.” 

He smoothed out a few locks of wavy black hair near his ridges, remembering how he had over-oiled before leaving his quarters for the evening. He needed to keep his wits; even the finest taverns couldn’t measure to almost-gaudy decor of this place, and it was overwhelming. “Yes.” Talking wasn’t the same now with the translators on. They did too much meddling, correcting for imperfect grammar or pronunciation. “Have you presented yet yourselves?” Vulcans, he was told, lacked true stage presence despite room in their culture for theatre. He wondered if he would find an exception to that rule.

“We are still preparing. However, it is very specialized and may provide little benefit to you.” 

He leaned in. “Please explain.”

“Oh, cool that hot head of yours,” chimed in Dr. Dael, setting down a glass of bloodwine before their guest. “We study the musical experiences of telepathic species. Any other conference, we’d present to non-telepaths. This place is a rare opportunity to speak with other telepaths in our field.” His decorated hands traced the rim and shape of his glass. “Describing how telepaths take in music compared to non-telepaths--” He trailed off, sighing dramatically. “I wouldn’t know where to start.” 

His friends back home warned him of the gross haughtiness among telepathic species. “Tell me when you present. I will attend.” 

Disdain. If he could provoke any sign of emotion in a Vulcan, he’d already won. It was his people’s nature to play these games. Those bruise-colored eyes turned serpentine. “I see that my colleagues in Starfleet provided accurate accounts: your people still prefer to take unnecessary difficulties. ”  

“Excuse me for a moment,” said Dr. Dael with a chuckle and a flourish, floating away to greet someone who had just walked in. 

Silence. Again. Perhaps he should down his drink and leave. This was turning into a waste of time. “Do you know why so many people covet attendance to this particular conference?” Vudic kept a level tone and his eyes like slits. 

He didn’t care for other people’s reasons. His was one that Vudic wouldn’t understand. He squared his shoulders, now eager for a confrontation. “The breadth of reach, of course.” A conference within Federation borders often had more to offer due to greater cultural exchange. That had been the case he built to the family’s patrons as Doh’Val persuaded them to fund his attendance.

Was that a sigh of exasperation? “Statistically speaking, approximately fifty percent of what is presented or performed at the Talas Music Conference will never be published or recorded. That is why the recordings made for each conference session are so well  _ gardenia _ . Protected.” He took a sip from the black liquid in his glass, ignoring the computer’s mistake. “People presenting here are given the greatest assurances that no one will steal their work, so much of what you see is creativity in raw form. This is not the end point for someone’s work but the beginning. Dr. Dael and I are attending this conference because here, we can collaborate with other telepaths. You being offended is ego-centric. If you came here with the intention of seeking praise instead of comment, you would do best to go home.” 

Doh’Val bristled. He had labored for months not just on the compositions he had brought here, but also on a variety of other works all for the purpose of showing the family patron that his talents could be expanded outside the Empire’s borders. He endured sleepless nights and eschewed all indulgences, sometimes writing music he hated but that he knew his patron would adore. This man had no idea what he suffered.  He’d better finish the bloodwine he had here and drink the bottle in his quarters. He should practice and forget this evening. His human side stopped him from plunging his knuckles into the man’s teeth.

Something in his expression softened after their moments of agonizing silence. “Everyone who attends the Talas Conference possesses talent and a desire for collaboration. The Andor Academy takes such great pains with this conference because the Academy would like some attendants to come back as instructors and researchers.” Another sip. “An artist who can perform here is an artist of potential and opportunity. A competent performance here adds a great deal to one’s reputation.” A pause. “I read over your biographical information. Your work is fascinating. Attempting to blend two disparate cultures in a meaningful manner takes skill.” 

The comment took him by surprise, considering how little he had provided when the conference asked him for personal details. “I didn’t think your people  were in the habit of flattery.” Praise from a Vulcan? His friends would accuse him of lying. 

“We are not. I am simply stating the truth.” 

He wrapped a few curls of his beard around a finger, considering the man’s words. “It is appreciated regardless.” There was hope for an understanding, after all.

And yet again, silence. A different silence this time, easier. The musicians in the corner created music that they would probably never hear again. In his mind, he cycled through every usual conference topic but none of them seemed interesting enough to bring up. He wanted to simply sit with this man and drink, contemplating what kept him from leaving. 

“Did you already exhaust  every topic of conversation?” Dr. Dael was standing at their table with someone new. Doh’Val didn’t care who. “Well, I will stay here for quite some time but Doh’Val, Son of Carl. I believe that this is your first visit to the Academy. Vudic, show our new acquaintance the more intriguing aspects.” 

One eyebrow kicked up on his face as if to say, you can’t be serious. “I think that you would make a superior guide, Dael.” 

“I would but--” he turned mid-sentence, calling over his shoulder as he walked off with his new companion. “Oh no, I’m quite occupied and unavailable.” 

He traded an uneasy glance with the Vulcan. “A walk would suit my taste.” 

“Exercising the body is never objectionable.” 

Outside the building--they had been in the one which housed visiting faculty--the translators were mercifully off. Finally they could talk without computer interference. 

“What do you wish to see?” A chance to hear that flavorful accent again. 

He needed to measure his words. The domes above had switched to something abstract, calming, and dark to represent the night. “I have never seen any examples of Vulcan art.” 

It was the most intense emotional response he had provoked during the whole evening. A sharp breath, dark brows raising, and the slightest tint of olive blush in his face, as if scandalized by the revelation. “I shall guide you through the current collection on display.” 

A short walk in silence and they strolled into another building. Maybe he could hear the man’s unadulterated voice later. No lights on in the corridors. “Did you break us in, Vulcan?” 

“A likely response from a Klingon but--dwe--so there is no need to consider the consequences.” The translators kicked on halfway through his sentence, drowning out the middle. The lights flickered on, dimmed to reflect time of day and how empty the building was. “This way.” 

They came into a vaulted room. No, there was more off around the corner of this room. An entire wing dedicated to Vulcan art. He reminded himself to breathe. “I never thought this much art from your culture could ever exist.” 

“I can assure you there are hundreds of other pieces.” The room itself, compared to everywhere else they had been, was designed to let the art stand out. Take away the art and they’d be standing in the drabbest, dullest area Doh’Val had seen his entire stay. “We believe in efficient use of space so you will notice that all art is displayed in the traditional way; measured the ideal space such that one can see the art on its own while allowing more art into the space. Humans always criticize our galleries for being cluttered but they should be more sensitive of cultural mores.” The tempo of his speech had picked up considerably. 

“You are an artist too--”   


“Not for visual media, but I do have a fundamental understanding of all Vulcan aesthetics as part of my training. My specialty is auditory which I expect you  _ fing _ . Know.” Those blue eyes seemed intent on attempting to read his very soul. “Now, please consider this piece here on the wall.” 

The piece in question was no more than Doh’Val’s armspan, perfectly rectangular. An impeccably crafted slab of black rock with tiny colored stones set into the slab. It created a series of abstract shapes which Doh’Val couldn’t decipher, but he admired the colors and the craftsmanship. “What is it?” 

“It should be obvious, but perhaps it is not to you and it clearly is not so I will explain.” The words flew from his lips. “This is an ancient art form on Vulcan used to illustrate--” he stopped suddenly for a second, “--it is not easy to explain but I can assure it is closely tied to Vulcan  _ philophian _ . Philosophy. If you have seen any of the sacred symbols of our culture, then you will understand how this is related. Now, please consider this next one.” 

A sculpture taller than both, terra-cotta tone like Vudic’s skin. No indication of what exactly it represented, but it had pockets and curves and all manner of textures decorating the piece. The sculpture had a fluid quality, seemingly impossible to have come from a planet with so little water. 

Vudic placed a hand on the sculpture. “The artist went blind at a very early age which is why her art is so unusual compared to the standards of Vulcan aesthetics; this provided her with a unique way of learning which led to this piece. It provides one with all the different  _ detendeds _ . Textures. Of the common geological formations on Vulcan with the intent of teaching one to distinguish between each by touch.” He grabbed Doh’Val’s sleeve as if he were a child that need prompting, placing his hand on the sculpture. “Vulcan aesthetics require that all art be functional and extremely robust such that it can withstands our challenging climate.” 

Demanding, isn’t he. Doh’Val exercised his human patience and didn’t backhand his guide for accosting his person without permission, particularly in such a condescending way. He rubbed his palm on parts of the sculpture as instructed, not clear on what he should gain. “What about the piece on the far wall?” He saw only one side of it peeking out behind a corner. 

Vudic looked up to where he had pointed, eyes hard like sapphires. With a kind of composure that looked unnatural even for such a stoic person, he marched to a console near the entrance of the gallery and audibly pressed a few buttons. A few beeps later, he resumed in their shared tongue with his natural voice. “The single most controversial piece of art ever produced by modern Vulcan culture.” 

A toothy smile spread over Doh’Val’s face. He didn’t wait for the man to join him. “I must see this.” Perhaps at long last a narrative? Oh, maybe a depiction of the Vulcans winning a key battle? Oh sure, they were peace-loving now but not always. Death of a lover? His smile widened, and he picked up his pace. Was it finally a depiction of the mating rituals that Vulcans were so overly secretive about? Expertly dodging the priceless pieces, he hastened to the corner. What tales he would spin for his friends back home--

He stopped short. “This--Are you certain?” 

The piece in question was roughly half Doh’Val’s size in height and wide as his arms. It was a painting. Of all the things that could be controversial, a painting. The subject, furthermore, was a fine light sepia Vulcan woman, deep brown eyes and hair piled high in what he assumed was some ancient style. She wore a rose-colored dress and modest jewelry. The background looked like her dressing chamber. From where he stood, the most remarkable thing about the painting was how lifelike she looked, even appearing lit from within. It was beautiful, but he could see nothing “controversial.” 

“This is the one. Unique in Vulcan culture without exception.” His words slowed, reverence creeping into his cadence. “Titled ‘Self-Portrait of the Artist During the Andorian-Vulcan Tensions.’ According to the agreed-upon story, she had created art similar to what we see in this gallery. The first one we saw was one of her earlier works. But then one night, when a large number of people associated with Vulcan High Command were gathered at an exhibit of her work, she hung up this piece. According to the witnesses, she announced, ‘This is Vulcan. This is the teachings of Surak. This is Logic. This is Truth. This is Beauty.’”

“I like this woman.” An obvious act of defiance against whatever the High Command and whatever they stood for. “What did they do?” 

“Imprison her.” Notes of outrage were in his tone. “In her home, they discovered a room where she made this art, designed to let her paint. A means of using water to make pigments and apply them the treated skin of an animal.  An unthinkable act on our planet. They declared her work antithetical to Vulcan values. They believed her a spy or imposter; they could think of no other reason why she would make this art. She had created other pieces. Family portraits, representations of everyday life--” he trailed off for a moment. “They were like nothing any Vulcan artist had ever created.” 

In war, one has to consider every option. His schooling taught him much about the aggression and meddling that the Vulcans had taken shortly after contact with Klingons as well as other species. But this woman seemed very important to Vudic. He’d keep quiet on his thoughts. “They destroyed her art, didn’t they? What about her?” 

“Yes. They kept her for many years. They preserved this piece as evidence of her crimes. In the midst of the overthrow of the High Command and the creation of the new government, they forgot to free her. She gained her freedom, but she lost her old life. She took to weaving clothes for the family that protected her legacy and a life of spirituality.” 

He stepped closer, now able to see the individual brush strokes, including a place where the artist had covered up some imperfection. “ I do not see her name anywhere.” He didn’t know Vulcan script and just asked to see what the man would say.

“T’pporah. She never signed these works. They were against everything in our culture’s aesthetics.” 

“Because she did not make it from stone?” He was still acquainting himself with the idea that Vulcans had any notion of beauty or art. It was merely a portrait!

He hesitated, brows furrowing. “You do not understand.” He gestured to everything else in the gallery. “We use stone, cloth, computer parts, pieces of our planet. But our art serves a function. It educates. Our art is to be touched, heard and smelled as well as seen. What the artist chooses to convey and how it is conveyed indicates so much about the artist. But this.” His attention traveled all over the painting as if unable to focus on one part. 

“One can only view it.” He was catching on, right? 

Vudic’s cadence picked up again. “It is without function. It is fragile. And perhaps its worst aspect of all: it is ego-driven. The only statement that comes from this piece of art is ‘I exist.’” He pointed back to the first piece they encountered. “It is illogical. She created the art. Therefore, we knew that she lived.” 

Doh’Val found himself growing fonder of this woman he’d never met who not only perplexed his guide but used her art to transgress against her society. “For something you find so distasteful, you know so much about it.” 

He kept his focus on the painting, sounding distracted. “I find the piece, the subject, and the history of the piece fascinating but not distasteful. Furthermore, imprisoning her was illogical and beyond the High Command’s reach.  The Academy teaches a class on this one painting.” He then added to himself, “I still do not have the opportunity to take the class.” 

It was so quiet. He could hear the blood moving through his ears. He went to sit down on the bench behind them which squarely faced the painting. His black clothes were flat against his polished onyx hair. “She looks lonely.” 

Vudic was still standing. He tilted his head, examining her features. Some whispered noise of intrigue. “Yes. I fail to recognize the expression from time to time.” 

“Is any display of emotion also against Vulcan aesthetics?”

His blue eyes were soft when he turned to him, even personable. Doh’Val couldn’t help leaning forward in anticipation. “It is permitted under certain circumstances. Our philosophy states that one must suppress emotion. Our art states that in order to suppress emotion, the artist must meet that emotion, greet it, and convince it to submit to logic.” 

Doh’Val slid over to make room, gesturing to his offer. “Does the gallery close anytime soon?” 

“I explained earlier--Ah. The translator.” He gingerly took the space on the bench. “Galleries like this one never close. We can stay as long as you wish.” 

Everything which had transpired during the evening was worth suffering through for this singular moment. He met Vudic’s frighteningly blue eyes. “Tell me more about Vulcan aesthetics and about this painting.” 

“Well, to understand our art, let me tell you about our culture….”


	3. At the Conference - Part 3

The last day of the conference. All lectures and performances had ended the previous day and throughout the conference, the organizers had taken pains to entertain their guests. But today, the Academy hosted a veritable feast day. Drinking, music-making, sparring, and even meditating for those who preferred sobriety and quietude. 

Doh’Val was drunk. And earlier in the day than he had intended. He’d gorged himself on bloodwine, partially from the bittersweet end of his stay and partially from his inability to resist the frivolity of feasting. Vudic served as his crutch and guide through the dark, narrow corridor. 

“My quarters are closest.” He showed no difficulty supporting the Klingon’s weight. 

“Joyous,” slurred Doh’Val. He smiled too much when he drank. Other Klingons would ask if he were stupid as it was the only reason for him to smile like that; luckily, fighting was simply part of Klingon tavern culture and they’d get their dues. “I always wanted to see a Vulcan’s dressing room.” 

The door slid open to a room that looked more like a large, empty closet. “Stand here.” He propped Doh’Val against the doorway tapping out a command on the nearby console. 

Panels on the wall shifted open and unfolded, soon furnishing the room with a bed, a desk, and a wedge-shaped chair. A cubby also opened up, one just large enough for the room’s occupant to sit down in for accessing the room’s main console. No replicator in the cubby, but a space for preparing beverages and simple meals. The door to the bathing area popped open, revealing another sliding door that he suspected separated the excrement room. “Water closet” as he’d heard on Earth. 

“Efficient. I expect nothing less.” No translators in here. He’d just spoken Klingon. Good, they could hear each other for once and he could switch to what they both knew.The bed was maybe five paces away and it was too far. He slid down, stretching out on the floor. “I will stay here for some time.” A hard floor was always comfortable when he was this drunk. 

An exasperated sigh. And without warning, Vudic was squeezing himself into the remaining space on the floor at his side. 

Doh’Val couldn’t turn his head without accidentally pressing his nose against the other’s face. Say something he can understand, idiot. “What are you doing? Should you not be doing work or whatever it is that you Vulcans do? Meditate maybe? I assure you I will be perfec--ohm--perfectly alright.” He sequestered a very loud belch. 

He felt the Vulcan fidgeted in vain to create more space. “This room is quite small and you are quite large. You take up much of the floor. Moreover, you talk.” His voice soured on the word, “Often.” He shifted again, gently elbowing Doh’Val in the process before resigning himself to this grievous mutual invasion of each other’s personal space. “Nevertheless, I will not look down on you, even physically. The strain to my neck would be detrimental. You are also my equal. I invited you to my quarters until you are well. Thus, logic states that I must join you. It is my best course of action. We will converse in this manner until you are well.” 

If only he could turn to see his face and those blue eyes. For a moment, Vudic had taken the words right out of him. “You are very kind,” he answered softly. 

The silence that often came between them felt easier each time it occurred. Over the course of their time at the conference, he grew to realize that long pauses were a natural part of Vulcan conversation. They were like Klingons in that they only spoke when they felt that they had something worth saying. Klingons, however, thought they had a lot more worth saying. 

“You leave for home tomorrow?” He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but it was long enough for him to feel a little more like himself. 

“Dr. Dael and I have another conference to attend first before we both return to our homes.” They were so close together he could feel Vudic’s ribcage moving with his breath. 

More silence. He focused on the other’s breathing. Deep, controlled.  Ribcage expanding, contracting. There was more than just quiet surrounding Vudic; there was a stillness that seemed to follow him. It felt like a third person in the room. 

“I will miss our time together.” Doh’Val had wanted to say it earlier; at the time, he kept shoving bloodwine into his mouth to stop himself. 

Perhaps it had been only a few moments before Vudic responded. Waiting felt like knives against his knuckles. “In the time that I have known you, Doh’Val, I have found great regard for you. I will think of you often in your absence.” 

“I pride myself on maintaining friendships with people, however far away they live.” It played a small part in how he got to the conference in the first place. An interplanetary friendship would be a lot harder, but he couldn’t let this man slip through his fingers. 

“I also give due diligence to such associations.” 

Good enough. No need for childish questions about whether or not they’d keep in touch. He was too drunk to stop himself. “I lied in our first meeting.”

“I do not understand.” Confusion in his voice.

“You asked why I came to the conference. I lied to you.” Would it make a difference? He had told no one else. He couldn’t stand keeping the truth to himself much longer. “I am here for the glory of the Empire,” he slurred, “ the only reason any Klingon does anything.” 

Nothing. Any second now, Vudic would ask him to leave and never return. Instead, he asked, “But did you gain insight and acquire knowledge?”

“More than ever before.” 

“Then you used your time wisely.”

Why wasn’t he asking Doh’Val to go? “But you said--what you said about flattery. Or praise. I am here--” He was losing his words. “The glory of the Empire and everything for one’s people--hmph, as if it needed any more….”

“My knowledge of your culture is narrow, but from the time we have spent together, you do not appear to engage in the same fanatical devotion to your government. This is unlike other members of your species. Thus, there are the reasons you provided to your people--your government, I presume--and the reasons which are known only to you.”

“So, you do not think me a fraud?”   
  


“I have observed nothing dishonest in your behavior. At your performance, you engaged critics with skill and subtlety rather than aggression.” More than anything, Vudic sounded as if he found this line of discourse mildly inconvenient.

The floor was too hard. Finally, he had sobered up a bit. Sitting up, he offered a hand to Vudic. In the dim light, his eyes were a blue that could swallow his soul. “I suppose we should go back. Dr. Dael will want to know where you have gone.” 

They were now standing up together. “Actually, that is not the case. A tweak of his eyebrows, something that always happened when he weighed conflicting ideas. “Curiously, Dr. Dael took great pains to tell me that he expects to be unavailable this entire evening. He told me that we would prepare for our next conference while traveling. Meanwhile I should--” he paused, shaking his head. “Enjoy myself.” 

And only now did the pieces fall into place. Every time he joined the two of them, Dr. Dael found an excuse to go elsewhere. He’d barely had a chance to speak with the man outside the first day they met.  He hesitated before saying, “I do not think Dr. Dael is fond of me.” 

“Oh, no. I assure you, that is not the case. For a Betazoid, Dr. Dael is highly logical. It is a different logic from mine.” Vudic took a seat in the cubby, turning to the meal prep area. “His different form of logic makes him a good judge of character.” 

“Then how does he judge me?” 

From the cubby area came two cups of tisane. “His judgement is thus: a collaboration between us would deeply benefit both people.” He handed off one cup before taking a seat on the narrow bed.

Doh’Val now recalled Dr. Dael’s other actions. The Betazoid always found a way to be nearby and then immediately insisted that he join him and Vudic for whatever meal was appropriate for the time of day. Even when he declined due to other engagements, Dr. Dael would insist on him arranging to meet later. “A teacher and a musician.” He took a seat on the opposite end of the bed, now able to abide by their respective culture’s personal boundaries. “I see nothing that we could create together.”

“You are mistaken.” He silently sipped the hot drink, impeccably able to eliminate the usual slurping noise most species couldn’t help making. “I play the ka’athyra. It is not an unusual skill on my planet.”

Doh’Val felt his vision darkened for just a moment. He felt his ridges suddenly pulsing. “Is the instrument here?” His skin was so tight and hot.  He let the hot tisane blister his mouth to wet his throat. 

A panel next to the bed slid open, and from it Vudic produced the Vulcan instrument as well as a small, ornately decorated drum. “Dr. Dael acquired this during his stay and insisted I present it as a gift to you. I intended to invite you to my quarters after we dined to retrieve the gift.” Laying the drum next to his guest, he began strumming the ka’athyra to check its tuning. “I do not know his intentions behind this gesture. He thinks highly of you; it would be more efficient if he presented it to you himself.” 

“Perhaps this is a--what is the word--flirtation? No. An encouragement.” The drum responded to the softest tap, creating a deep sound like what he imagined the gods would have made when creating the first Klingons. “A tool for collaboration.” 

“When traveling, I practice as part of my morning routine and before I retire for the evening.” He appeared absent-minded as he plucked at the strings, warming up his hands. “Perhaps we should attempt the collaboration that Dr. Dael insists that we do.” 

Doh’Val took a gulp of tisane which burned his tongue and the roof of his mouth. “How shall we proceed?” 

An expression of deep contemplation settled on his face; even in simple matters, he weighed every option. “Let us be constructive. As my guest, I would like you to begin. Play what is--” He stopped suddenly, whispering under his breath to himself. “Play what you enjoy. I will join in.” 

A daunting and nearly impossible task at the moment. “Simple.” He cradled the drum under his arm where it fit like it was made for his body and his alone. Take a breath. Focus. He should start with something from his performance. Instead of looking at his partner as would be polite, he looked at his drumming hands to keep from breaking his concentration. 

He heard a bit of plucking, the sound of someone finding their melody. Then it came. It was like nothing he’d ever heard, and yet something in it was familiar. Had he heard Vulcan music before? He glanced over to see Vudic with his eyes closed like in meditation, rocking slightly with the rhythm. He played soulfully. 

No uncomfortable silences or unnerving pauses in this conversation. He spoke effortlessly with his music where words had failed him. This was what the two hearts felt when the gods created them. This is what Creation sounds like. He’d never had a spiritual experience until now. 

They brought their song to a close, and their eyes met. Something in Vudic’s face was different; he’d felt it. He didn’t merely think it or infer it or do all those ‘logical’ revolutions of his species. He  _ felt _ . They _ felt _ the same thing. 

Vudic spoke at last. “Doh’Val, Son of Carl.” He kept his voice low. “Do you sense that your people’s culture has remained unchanged for a long time?”

“Yes.” His throat felt so dry. “We have new inventions and we explore the stars, but we write the same stories.”    


“And make the same art.”

“And play the same songs.” 

Some people in conversation walked down the hallway. “To this day, no one on my planet has created art like that of T’Porrah.” His eyes were like the blue flame of perfect combustion. “The first time I visited Earth to see my mother’s family, I did not understand how a planet could have so many differing and distinct cultures. Then I understood that this diversity of culture was one of Humans’ greatest assets. We founded the Federation and brought Humans into galactic society. But our culture is stagnant.” 

Doh’Val didn’t realize he was leaning closer. “It is so hard to create new art in the Empire. Everyone just wants to hear the same songs.” 

“Or see the same art.” 

How much he would give to stop writing the same horrible, stale canticles that his family’s patron had an endless appetite for hearing. “What are your reasons for coming here?”

Vudic looked into the middle distance, brows furrowed. “To experience the same diversity in art that people on Earth take as given.” 

“Then we desire the same thing. To bring a new era to our cultures.”

Those cutting blue eyes. “We do.”

His hand grabbed the other’s bare forearm, unable to stop himself. “Dr. Dael said collaborate. This is what he meant.” 

Vudic audibly inhaled but never broke eye contact. 

A singular moment. In Doh’Val’s younger days during a stay on Earth, he’d foolishly been outside during a storm. A bright, blinding light and blast so loud all he could hear afterwards was a high whine. His blood felt like acid in his veins as it swept through, faster than fire. Klingons never felt fear. He was half. It was the only time he’d ever felt truly afraid. In the instance he grabbed Vudic’s arm, the same fire roared through his body for one terrifying moment. His hand locked up. Oh no. He couldn’t let go. 

Blue eyes like the wine-dark water running thick with enemy blood. Impossible, and yet it was. “I will not accept half-measures.” For a man with a voice like silver, it was suddenly rough and gravelly. “We must commit ourselves to this cause with every fiber.” 

He couldn’t let go. Damn it, he couldn’t let go. But he betrayed nothing. “To my last breath.”    


“To my last breath.” 

Finally, his grip released. Had that been his new friend’s doing? 

“I have identified how we will begin.” Obviously, it was his original idea to pursue this alone. “Computer, play recording; file name--” something in Vulcan. Music began.

Doh’Val reeled. “I--what is the species of the singer?”

“No one knows. The colleagues who have heard this hypothesize that they belong to the same clade as Andorians, but my personal hypothesis from vocal analysis is a defected Romulan, perhaps in hiding.” 

“They--the harmony and lead are the same person--” What could this be? “--I never heard this kind of range.”    
  
“The instrument was identified as originating in the Gamma Quadrant. The instrument in question has the kind of unusual tuning of music originating from that quadrant. Here, listen to the upcoming measures.” 

He felt chills. “I never thought one could write such a harmony. Have you identify the musical tradition?” 

“That is what makes this person fascinating. The foundation is rooted in Bajoran music. But there is no Cardassian influence and very little expected counter-influence. Instead, this recording has Tellerian influence. Another has elements of Andorian and Klingon. A third heavily favors Human and Trill elements. I have collected ten, but one of my colleagues has secured as many as thirty. More importantly, new ones have been discovered within the past year.”

Quite a mystery. “I believe--” he couldn’t quite place it at first. “I--Are you so certain about your Romulan hypothesis? The high notes remind me of a shrill sounds a Ferengi makes.” 

“Ferengi is improbable. The recordings originate from both currency-based and goods-based societies. Furthermore, the songs cover a variety of subjects disconnected from known subjects in Ferengi music. I have attempted a full vocal analysis via computer, but not every recording yields the same result. In some cases, the recordings are so degraded that results prove inconclusive.”

“Are they all in one language? I do not know this one.” 

“No, which is also fascinating. I have yet to identify all of them. We have an artist who is mixing style, subject matter, language, and elements; and yet, no one knows their name, their identity, or even where they came from.”

They had no choice in the matter. “We must find this person. Convince them to come into the light.” He would need to write a whole opera to convince his family’s patron to fund this expedition. He would do it without hesitation for this opportunity.

There was a twinkle in Vudic’s blue eyes. “I am in contact with a musician who has procured a recent known recording.” He touched a few keys on the nearby console. “A Seu Minjaral. I have never met the man and only know him by reputation; he was one of the first from Bajor to attend the Talas Conference since the end of their conflict, dedicating a lecture and workshop to Cardassian influence and counter-influence on Bajoran music.”

Doh’Val felt a flutter of giddiness. “He could be our man.” The Occupation still resonated and rippled through the musical world even after many years; with time had come the stories of valor and sacrifice about the people on Bajor who had laid down their lives to preserve their culture. A man like this would undoubtedly inspire his own race to greater artistic heights. 

“Most probable. A man such as him would know how to construct music that satisfies these parameters. Many of my colleagues even suspect that he may be one of many participating in this secretive project, but to what end I cannot discern.” 

“How soon will we leave to meet this man?” 

Vudic touched his shoulder. “There are still plans to make.” A wisp of a smile. “Exercise patience, my friend. I will see to all of our arrangements after my next conference.” 

He beamed. A worthy journey with a worthy friend. The glory he had always dreamed of. “I will wait. Impatiently, but I will wait.” 

The Vulcan strummed his ka’athyra. “We will also spend many hours together on our journey. I propose that we learn more about each other through music.” 

“A fine idea. But this time, you start first….” 


	4. A Funny Thing Happened On The Way to Bajor - Part 1

Mother,  
I have departed the Qo’noS System with Doh’Val. The transport is passing through the border of the Klingon Empire into ungoverned space. Our quarters are small, too small for more than one bed. However, I have confidence that we will find compromises to any conflicts which arise as we both intend to act in good faith and trust each other. My letters have been brief as well as few and far between---a fact I know makes you anxious and worried for me. I will endeavor to contact you more often during our journey. I never intend to cause you pain. 

I am optimistic after my reception from Doh’Val’s family and their desire to seek a friendship with you and Father. By the time you read this, Mr. Nakarmi will have contacted you with an invitation to visit him and Mrs. Tavana. I hope that you will oblige them. I am unfamiliar with their customs, but my understanding is that Doh’Val travels with the protection of a “family patron.” Apparently, this enhances the reputation of his family among their peers. His parents regard our expedition with favor. Already, I see the foundation of what we are doing. There is only so much that Starfleet or the Federation can accomplish. We will do what they cannot. Our journey to Bajor will last a few months, and I will be back home. I am satisfied with our preparations. We no longer believe that Seu Minjaral is the elusive Musician 52366, but his knowledge will prove important to our search. 

I can confess to you and you alone that the language of logic is not enough. I am eager. And I am happy.   
+++++++  
Mother,  
All other means to contact you are unavailable. Our transport required emergency repairs. I am unfamiliar with the details, but we are safe on a supply station. The repairs will take quite some time, and the station cannot accommodate the passengers for any length of time. Doh’Val believes that he can secure another means of travel, although he has yet to reveal his plans. I trust him in this matter as we are still within the Klingon Empire’s sphere of influence. I will contact you again when we have secured safe passage.


	5. A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Bajor - Part 2

“Another song for my crew!” cried out Captain Kagga amid the shouts and cheers of the other crewmembers. She dined with them for this special occasion as they had very cultured guests aboard. They were almost worthless as warriors, but fortunately all Klingon vessels provided unconditional aid to any and all citizens found traveling outside the Empire’s borders.

“Opera! More opera!”

“Another one of those fine Vulcan tunes!”

“No, a Starfleet song from when they waged war!”

“One more and you will have earned your share of rations.” She stood from the table to throw a rough arm around each of them, squeezing them close. “Your choice. We have yet to hear your blue-eyed friend sing.” 

Translators were always considered non-essential computer operations on a Klingon ship; they weren’t going to bother switching it on for a single guest. Doh’Val murmured to his friend, “she wants to hear you sing.” 

“I think that is unwise. The breadth of my knowledge would not include what she enjoys, and my skills with my ka’athyra are much more impressive.” The one good thing was no computers to interfere when they spoke. Now, Vudic was easier to understand with his natural accent instead of whatever the computer synthesized. 

No one denies the request of a captain aboard their own ship. She wouldn’t hesitate to punish them for insubordination as if they were part of the crew; it was the only way for her to maintain her authority. “The duet I taught you. The one about sailing.” 

His friend closed his eyes in resignation. “I do not know it well. But I will attempt a suitable rendition.” 

To Captain Kagga, he flashed a toothy smile. “We have a fine duet. He would be happy to perform.”

“Happy? Hah!” She gave each of them a forceful slap on the shoulder, returning the smile and returning to her seat. “I did not think that was a word any Vulcans knew.Then it must be superlative. At your leisure, sirs.” 

Vudic began, his ringing and silvery voice filling the cabin as he projected all the way to farthest bulkhead. He always sounded exactly as one would expect a trained Vulcan singer: perfectly controlled, clear, and using one’s anatomy to achieve the purest notes. Of course, the song was in Russian so no one else on the ship had the slightest idea what they were saying--it didn’t matter. Doh’Val actually wished he didn’t know either so he could spend more of his energy simply enjoying this voice. Vudic missed his calling as an opera singer. Prospective lovers would be at his feet wherever he went had he been born on Qo’noS and begun a career there. 

“Unsociable our sea  
Day and night, it is noisy  
In his fateful expanse  
Many ills buried….”

They finished to tankards banging on the tables and even louder cheers. Vudic gave the stiffest bow that Doh’Val had ever seen before turning away to store his instrument. “Sirs, you will sit across from me,” announced Kagga, gesturing as her officers cleared away to yield them seats. 

“We are deeply grateful for your kindness, Captain.” As they sat down, two plates of rations were set before them by a steward along with two tankards.

“Stop sweetening my bloodwine.” Her smile was fierce. “You give us music, and we give you passage. It is a fair trade.”

Vudic gave his people’s salute. “I am thankful with honor.” He had insisted on learning enough to communicate simple sentiments out of respect for their host, although they knew little about Klingon military traditions and gestures. 

She laughed behind her tankard the way one regards a child learning their first words. However patronizing she was, it was merely the way of imperial soldiers. Doh’Val yet to meet a soldier without an air of haughtiness. “I see your friend’s tongue can handle our language. Tell him I accept.”

He murmured in his friend’s ear. “She approves of you.” 

“That is favorable for our circumstances.” He inspected the platter and tankard to determine if there was anything here that he could eat or drink. “I give you permission to ignore me. Focus your efforts on the captain and maintaining a beneficial relationship.” Choking down his dinner would be a trial; he didn’t have a choice in this case. 

Doh’Val gestured to the steward to bring water. He’d switch their cups at the first opportunity and save his friend some pain. “Is it too much to ask what your mission is, being so far from the Empire?”

“It is, but I am flattered that you would show any interest.” She eyed his friend with a smirk, clearly amused by his attempts at life-threatening politeness regarding his meal. “What I want to know, more than anything, is what you and this friend of yours are doing so far from home.” 

“Well, that is quite a st--”

A lurch so violent that plates jumped off the tables and bloodwine spilled on every lap. The steward had collapsed with a tray of bowls and was brushing himself off while the officers cleaned up themselves. Vudic had disappeared to double-check that their instruments were still intact. 

One moment Captain Kagga sat before him and in the next, she was disappearing through the doorway barking a string of commands and insults with an authority that reassured him of their safety. Whatever the issue, she would protect everyone aboard. 

“Take you and your guest to the bunks.” Her second grabbed them each by the arm and shoved them out the door. 

They wound through the dark corridors of the vessel, dodging the other crewmembers who sprinted to their posts. “Must be another ship malfunction.” Doh’Val could think of no other reason for the interruption; this time, they wouldn’t need to go looking for another means of passage as Klingon ships were always at the ready to make repairs. 

Every bunk in the barrack they were assigned to was empty. The only thing they could do was wait. Vudic stowed their instrument and stretched out on their designated bunk. “I will meditate until it is safe for us to leave. Please alert me with any further information.” 

Doh’Val sat on the nearby bench; the crew make it quite clear that so long as neither of them touched the other bunks, all would be well. 

A grating, metallic voice came over the coms. “This is The Tantalan Corps. Your ship has been caught in our trap. Do not attempt to fire on us or use your shields. Transport your cargo to our hold and we will free you.” 

Captain Kagga responded. “The Klingon Empire does not bow to privateers, thieves, criminals, or cowards. I will die protecting my crew before you lay a hand on them or our ship.” 

“Then you will die and so will your crew. You have fifteen minutes to comply.” 

The coms went dead. Vudic was on his feet, his face like stone and looking to Doh’Val for confirmation of his suspicions. “We are being captured.”

“Something called the Tantalan Corps.” They needed a plan for survival. If they were lucky, everyone else would be killed and their captors would leave the ship intact. 

He knew it was more than just capture.“I have vital information regarding the Tantalans. We must find the Captain.”

“Get back to your bunk!” A deckhand grabbed Vudic by the scruff of his collar the way Klingons discipline their children for bad behavior. He had taken only a couple steps outside the quarters when the deckhand snatched him.

Vudic kept a cool expression but his voice was acrid and his Klingon mangled. “Kagga. I need Kagga.” 

Doh’Val rushed to intervene. “He says he can help us defeat our enemy.” 

The deckhand sneered. “We will decorate the captain’s quarters with their bones.” 

“All the more reason to use what he can tell us to guarantee victory and glory for our dear captain and our ship.” Appeals like these were second-nature by now, and they almost always worked.

“Hm.” He let go of Vudic. “See the Tactical Engineer. I will take you both.” 

Thirteen minutes, maybe less. The deckhand led them into an area where a gristly-looking officer snarled, “Disruptors on, worms!” She was older than Kagga with a few missing teeth. Seeing them, she pointed for the door. “No need for you here, bards. Back to your bunk.” 

“The Vulcan says he can bring us victory,” announced the deckhand.

Doh’Val expected resistance. Instead, she called, “Translators on!” A few beeps. “Start talking and make it quick.”

“Tantalans use sound the way we use light and it is how they see.” Vudic wasted no time convincing the officer. “Their sound-sight is superlative. Furthermore, they are a strongly telepathic people who can communicate with other Tantalans in a different room. Just as we can be blinded with light, they can be blinded with sound. I know a technique that will disrupt their abilities. However, it can only reduce their telepathic capacity by 35% while reducing my own by as much as 72%. I advise that we connect my instrument to our com system, bring the volume to a decibel below the threshold of Klingon ear pain, and provide everyone onboard with ear protection. The Klingon threshold is higher than the Vulcan threshold, so I will need protection as well.”

“I will advise the Captain. Translators off!” 

While she was relaying this new plan, Doh’Val frantically whispered, “How do you know all of this?” 

“Tantalans were one of the first people Dr. Dael and I came across in our research. The values I gave are not accurate but still trustable. We never found a subject that would sit for interviews.” His voice lowered. “They do not tolerate other species well.” 

“Go to Engineering,” said the officer, “Collect what you need from your quarters on the way. Do as they say.” She then instructed another deckhand to lead; they were each taken by the shoulder and marched away. 

The chief engineer’s long fingers handled the wires as expertly as Vudic handled his ka’athyra; subordinates were running diagnostics to adjust the levels and ensure that the changes wouldn’t disable them. The Captain had taken very well to their suggestion. Something was wrong. They shouldn’t be so willing to use Vudic’s plan. Their arrogance shouldn’t allow this. 

Vudic offered up his ka’athyra at the chief engineer’s silent request, a slight tension in his hands when he took the delicate instrument. A few bits clipped to places where Vudic pointed. The subordinates were too quiet. Everyone was too quiet. This didn’t feel right at all. 

The chief strummed hard. Crackling, distorted sound exploded from every com on the ship. It was so dissonant and harsh. Perhaps this is what they needed. 

“Bard, can you fight?” The chief didn’t wait for an answer as he placed a disruptor in Doh’Val’s hand. “No time to add your song. You will defend Engineering with us.” He paused and asked, “What is your house?”

“House of Nakarmi.” 

His brow furrowed but there was no time to ask. “The House of Nakarmi will be honored by your glorious death.” 

“Once I have my protection, we cannot hear each other.” Vudic touched his shoulder. “This is an adequate plan. We will survive.” 

His confidence was reassuring. “And this will work without fail?”

Vudic lowered his voice. “No. At most, we have an 80% chance of survival.”

It took every fiber of his being to not throw him into the bulkhead. He whispered back, seething, “80% at most!” 

Vudic had the nerve to shush him. “The important aspects are the decibels and creating a complex, off-putting rhythm.This is no time for explaining nuance.” How dare he! 

An announcement came over the com instructing all crewmembers to take their positions and apply their ear protection. Vudic--how dare he--that man--Doh’Val couldn’t decide where to start with what made him so angry. 

Blood in his ears. Breathing. Vudic--that man--how could someone with so few emotions to show find just the precise way to--

Music notes boiled out of the walls. The ka’athyra was shrieking. Life and death hanging in the balance, and he couldn’t stop himself from considering the aesthetic and the possibility of using distortion in their music. He could feel the low notes in his ridges. 

Vudic played with ferocity, fingers sliding up and down the strings. The engineering crew clustered in formation to create a wall around him, a dagger in one hand and a pistol in the other. All were aimed at the single doorway, purposely kept open should a crewmember in the corridor require aid. 

They waited. 

And waited. 

The shimmer of a transport. Someone was materializing in the corridor just outside the doorway.

Horrible. An angular head with only vague indentations of features like eyes. No mouth, just a strange protrusion of jagged mouth parts. Serrated limbs, extra appendages. A cross between a person and the mantids he remembered from Earth. Horrible. He saw the Klingon baldric across its body. Now, he understood.

The chief engineer signaled for them to wait as the last piece of the creature materialized. They’d see if Vudic had lied.

The Tantalan immediately clutched its head and crumpled, listing to the side like a dying fish. 

Proof enough. A volley of shots turned the invader into a steaming blue smear on the deck. 

Doh’Val felt the bloodlust take over. Yes, yes, he had always craved victory like any true son of Qo’Nos. The stink of their tattered enemy was sweet perfume for his savage soul. 

“Qapla’!” he shouted for himself, but he saw the word on everyone’s lips. 

With a band led by the chief’s second, he burst into the corridor to find the same scene playing out. Blue smears up and down the walls, on the ceiling and the floor. Baldrics taken from other crews lay tattered among the carnage. The Tantalans were so unprepared, some even dropped their weapons. 

A Tantalan was next to him. He pulled his civilian’s knife to slash its throat. 

Was that a burn in his shoulder?

Its head melted as he shot it through, ooze pouring out of the wound as the body slumped forward onto him. The spray covered his face and beard. 

More wet. He was bleeding. Excellent. It made him feel invincible. He cut the baldric from its body. It deserved better than this.

He looked back in Engineering to find the cluster around his friend had started dragging dead enemies out of the corridor to pile them in an alcove. Not one dead Klingon yet, only someone taking in shelter in Engineering to tend their injured leg. 

Before he knew it, the only ones in the corridor were him and a bunch of soldiers still hungry for blood. Was it over already? How long had it been? 

Someone grabbed him, yanking him back into Engineering. Another all but threw him on the floor while two deckhands cut away his clothes. Now the pain set in as he saw the open, weeping wound around his collarbone. Some of his skin had already turned black and dead. 

He refused to even wince as they smeared over a foul-smelling ointment. Magical machines were in sickbay. The ointment didn’t take away the pain, of course. Pain should stoke the fires of your spirit before battle. 

Music surrounding them like thick smoke. Vudic’s eyes seemed glassy as if in a trance. Doh’Val needed to stay down and out of the way until someone said otherwise. Now he got to see the true quality of imperial soldiers. They couldn’t speak a word to each other, but they communicated with ease to keep the ship running. For once, he was truly impressed with the Klingon military. 

The hunger for war now grew tepid in him. He hurt. He wanted to rest. Where did that sash go?Time suddenly moved so slowly….

He struggled to his feet when Captain Kagga strode through the door. The cluster around Vudic parted for her. She placed a hand on the ka’athyra to silence. 

Vudic stopped, still in his trance. 

They pulled the instrument, now flecked with green, from his hands; the captain held it carefully while the chief engineer took the amplifying bits away. 

She gently tapped his cheek with one hand and the other on his shoulder. 

Vudic came to but seemed dazed, furrowing his brows at his fingers and then at the captain. 

Captain Kagga signalled for everyone to remove their ear protection. She gestured for Doh’Val to come over and translate for his friends. The chief engineer handed her some wires with a microphone while everyone else in the room removed their ear protection. 

“The Tantalan Corps has been defeated without a single casualty on our side. Today, we share our victory with the Vulcan in our company whose scheme saved us. Find this man and thank him that you will live to die a greater and more glorious death.” 

Setting down the com, Captain Kagga waited for silence in the room. Doh’Val quietly gasped as she gave both of them the Vulcan salute, that familiar hand split. 

The chief followed suit. Then his second, and then another. Then another and another. 

A room full of Klingon warriors--the most virulent patriots, hostile to any outsiders--saluting a civilian Vulcan for his valor in battle. 

Vudic, despite his stoic nature, could not fully mask his astonishment. He met eyes with every single one in the room to personally acknowledge this incredible gesture of respect. 

He gestured back and cleared his throat. “Qapla’.”

The room of warriors cheered with one voice. “Qapla’!” They broke into cheering as they crowded around to pay their respects, some even talking to him despite him not understanding a word. 

Doh’Val’s gaze met the captain’s. She wanted him. She wanted him to want her. She wanted him to want her, and for him to want her to want him. “We will complete our mission because of your efforts.” 

Before he had any chance to make his first overture, a deckhand spoke up. “Sir, your friend. I think he is ill.” 

A trio brought Vudic to him, holding the man like a wounded hero. The glassiness hadn’t left his eyes, and his hands were outstretched like the ancient statues of Buddha he remembered from his grandparents’ home on Earth. Green. There was blood on his hands. He was shaking. Why was he shaking? 

Leaning close, he murmured in his friend’s ear, keeping a level voice despite the small convulsions throughout his body, “Tell them I must rest and meditate.”

“Our hero needs his rest!” he announced to the room.

“Take the warrior to his quarters!” Deckhands kept their hands on him, hoisting him up to create a chair with their arms. 

Enemy bodies and their gore still littered the corridors. More crewmembers joined to follow them, creating a procession behind Doh’Val and the deckhands carrying his friend. They shouted and they sang, each eager to pay their respects to the hero of the hour. 

By the time they reached the barrack containing their bunk, what looked like half of the crew were following them. Doh’Val stopped in the doorway. The deckhands were laying out Vudic on their bunk. “Comrades! Patriots! We are victorious today!”

A thundering chorus.

“Comrades! Our man is wounded. He is not accustomed to war such as we are. He must rest. But when he is well, you may honor him then. Your gratitude honors us both.” 

Another chorus of shouts before they started dispersing. His burn still hurt so much. 

Going over to their bunk, the shaking had only grown worse. “He keeps asking for you.” The deckhands expressed genuine concern. “Will he live?”

“Yes.” He had to believe himself. He had to believe that Vudic would recover. “I will care for him.” 

They nodded solemnly. “Tell him that although his homeworld is in the Federation, today he is a Klingon.” 

At last, they left. Vudic sat up, hugging his limbs close to his body. “My pack. There is a thermal cover and a medical kit.” His voice was level despite speaking through chattering teeth. 

The “thermal cover” was a woollen blanket, heavy and rough. He set the medical kit on the bunk upon realizing that everything inside it was labeled in Vulcan script.

“The polymer gel.” The blood still wet on his hands made everything that much harder to pick up. The white tube he dropped back into the kit was smeared with green. 

“Please. Allow me.” Doh’Val picked up some blotting cloth. “Spread out your hands.” He held his thin fingers. All that blood from just some shallow cuts on his fingers. The bleeding was already slowing. “Which one is the hypo-spray?”

“I do not require it.” More shaking. “The convulsions are nothing more than a physiological response to physical stress and a confrontation with danger. My body is behaving in an illogical manner. I, however, am fine. Moreover, I am unaccustomed to such low temperatures.” 

Now he understood. He snorted with a smile. “You were scared. You have never seen battle.” Pulling the cap off the tube, he applied some gel to the first cut. 

“Fear was a distraction in the moment. I remained composed.” He pulled away one hand to grab the blanket, pulling it around his shoulders. “I require this cover. The low temperatures do not improve my condition.” 

He smirked. Vudic had been scared. Remarkably, he did not show it once during the battle. Doh’Val found even more respect for him than before. “One’s first battle is never a pleasant experience. You adapt quickly.” 

“The unpleasantness in the moment is unimportant as the moment has passed.” A shiver went through him, ending in his hands. “The danger has passed.” He shrugged, attempting to move the blanket further while keeping his hands resting on the kit. “The temperature in here is lower than I remember.” 

Quintessentially Vulcan. “My education included a great deal of combat as a young child. We sparred with each other, but the true fighting came through simulators. We fought holograms which were given real weapons. My first encounter did not end well.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I cried so quickly. The other students mocked me for the rest of the training session.” 

“Because you were half-human.”

He stopped applying the polymer gel, looking away to reach those memories. “No,” he said slowly. He reached further. “They mocked me because my parents are not warriors. They thought I was too soft for combat.” Now that he considered the notion, he had lived with very little hindrances due to his mixed family. “Only the very old who remember the war with the Federation would ridicule my bloodline.” 

“How unexpected.” The silence felt uncomfortable, this time because Vudic’s tone said he had far more to say that he would allow himself.

Doh’Val finished with the polymer gel, giving both hands a light blow to help the gel set. His friend focused far too much on his mixed heritage, always assuming that Doh’Val’s hardships were somehow linked to this fact. And then something fell into place. “Vulcans are less tolerant of mixed marriages, I take it.” 

Vudic’s gaze fell on the empty bunk across from them. 

His heart sank, realizing that he had said something very painful. “I did not mean to--”

“Yes.” Perhaps it was because the shivers hadn’t subsided. The single word escaped his lips, small and vulnerable. He wrapped his blanket tighter around him. 

“Why?” But Doh’Val already knew.

Vudic had a habit of making too much eye contact when he spoke. Or possibly just a habit of all Vulcans. It was the first time Vudic showed naked emotion. Anguish. “We value logic above all,” he began with an inadvertent sigh. “The path to its attainment is Kolinahr. To complete this and purge one’s self of all emotion is to be as Surak, our greatest philosopher. To not complete this path or take an unconventional route--” A flicker of rage sparked and fizzled, “may not reflect well on one.”

The thought of his friend purging himself of all emotion pained him. Even in his measured and reserved nature, Vudic was sly and cheerful. When he made music, a spark lit up his ocean-blue eyes. 

“The art of Vulcan, I am certain, saved my life. It is why I became an artist.” 

“What is so special about how Vulcans regard artists?”

“We are unlike philosophers and practitioners of Kolinahr because while they interpret the teachings of Surak, we interpret Vulcan society and the philosophers themselves. We see what is real, and we complement the philosophers. They speak to the mind. We speak to the soul. For our efforts, we are afforded--what is the Standard word? Liberation? Lessness?”

“If an artist expresses emotion, it is not inappropriate,” offered Doh’Val. 

“So long as there is logic behind such an expression, artists do not experience the same social sanctions. We must be allowed to express our creativity in interpreting the deep knowledge of Vulcan culture we have acquired through many years of study and practice. It is more important to encourage innovation in our artists than adherence to formality. Artists rarely achieve Kolinahr. Some have even described it as harmful to our people.”

“And they are not imprisoned or shunned?” 

Vudic shook his head. “It is illogical to silence them. The expression of dissent provides the opportunity for Kolinahr practitioners to refute the argument. When grounded in logic, no opinion should be excluded from any discussion.” 

“What do you think? Do you believe it is harmful?”

Vudic looked away, allowing Doh’Val a moment to recover. Those blue eyes seemed to burn whatever they looked upon. “I lack adequate information to form an opinion. I am not familiar with every argument. I also do not possess sufficient drive to seek them out.” 

“You do not know, nor do you care.” 

A smile. Subtle, but a real smile. “A succinct summary.” 

Doh’Val felt fatigue settling into his body. His burn still ached, causing him to lean against the bulkhead to steady himself. 

“You are weary.” Vudic made more room in the bunk. “Lie down.”

He didn’t have enough energy to make a show of protesting and insisting he was fine. Stretching out, he felt the blanket fall over him. Vudic’s shivering finally started to subside. They were as close as they had been in his quarters at the conference which started them on this journey. 

“What were they saying to me? The crew. What were their precise words before they left?” They were on their backs, no room to do anything but stare at the bunk above them.

“That you are now one of them. They regard you as their equal.” The bulkheads hummed quietly around them.

“I sensed this but required confirmation.” He sounded pleased. “And the captain after her speech?”

“The same, I am certain. She may even contact our families.” At the very least, she will send word to her commander. He wondered what kind of reward that civilians could get for valor in battle.

“That may prove troublesome.”

“Why?”

“My mother. She can be--” he paused for too long, “--emotional.”

He caught the deeper meaning. “My mother, on the other hand, will be pleased. She will ask for every detail--” he smirked, “--from both of us. War itself never held her interest, but she enjoys war stories.” 

Finally, Vudic had stopped shivering altogether. “Doh’Val.” His voice was a whisper.

“Yes?” He couldn’t help whispering back. 

“Do you recall our meeting? We agreed that we found each other familiar yet had never crossed paths before that moment.” 

“Yes.”

“I believe that I understand now what we found so familiar. We recognized our shared culture.”

It explained the ease they shared, how quickly their friendship had come to life, and how readily they endangered themselves for each other. And how Doh’Val now found new feelings swirling inside him. “You make an astute observation.”

“Yes, I know.” The snide imp. 

No one would come for them for quite some time. They were civilians with minor injuries. Just the sounds of the ship for now. “What do you think of the captain?” 

He made a thoughtful noise and fidgeted to reposition himself. “I consider Captain Kagga competent, shrewd, and unconventional based on what you have told me about your culture.” 

“I think she desires me.”

“Desires you to do what? You lack military training.”

Doh’Val had never broached this topic with his friend before. He never knew what Vulcans could tolerate when discussing such matters. “She desires me sexually.” Bluntness would give him a quick answer. 

A very long silence. “I understand now.”

He could see a possibility with the captain. She wanted him. He wanted her. She was hard with sharp angles and edges; he was soft with curves and lumps. She had broad shoulders and a strong nose and a sharp smile. He was no warrior or great leader or even a handsome dandy of considerable fortune. And yet she wanted him. 

Vudic said something and broke his musings.

“What?”

“Do you desire her?”

He couldn’t lie. Not to his companion. “Yes.” What would he say? 

“Then the best course of action is to pursue her.” He sounded truly dispassionate. “Whatever can be done to maintain this beneficial arrangement is worth pursuing.” 

Doh’Val’s heart fell. He wanted Kagga because he felt genuine affection for her, not to use her for their convenience. Is that what his friend thought of intimacy? Just another means to an end instead of something potentially beautiful? “Are you certain?”

“Yes. You are two adults who have shown great respect for each other. You appear to have compatible characteristics. If the relationship will make you happy, then by all means you should pursue what will bring you happiness.” 

There were a lot of things that could make him happy, not just pursuing Kagga…. “I did not think that my happiness would matter to you.” 

“Your happiness makes you a better composer. When you are happy, you perform to the best of your ability.”

A very Vulcan way of thinking. “So I should pursue her.”

“You should do what will bring you happiness. Will it make you happy?”

Maybe. But then again maybe not. “Yes.” 

“Then do what you shall.”

Then he shall.


	6. A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Bajor - Part 3

He Who Is My Son,

You have exercised prudence. I have reviewed your account of the incident aboard the Klingon bird-of-prey. We have not yet been contacted regarding the incident which will afford me the necessary time to relate the events to your mother in a manner that will not distress her. I am confident that both yours and the captain’s will corroborate each other. 

What I read from your account, you acted admirably given the dire circumstances. You did not turn from the opportunity to rescue lives nor did you falter in carrying out the plan you recommended. The deaths could not be avoided, and by your own words the crew outnumbered the members of the Tantalan Corps. The lives saved thus outnumbered the lives lost. I discern no fault on your part. 

You grieve for the events which have passed, and you express fear as if the events are ongoing. You are your mother’s son. The ailment you describe is a human reaction and while it is an illogical reaction, it is part of you. When you were very young, you acted in ways I did not understand. I realized that although you were a child, you were someone new in my life with unique needs and characteristics. Making decisions on your behalf required me to first understand you. In understanding you, I learned what sets you apart from other Vulcans and from my older children. These traits which you share with your mother are not weaknesses. They have never lessen my respect for you, nor will they ever. Your grief and fear are expressions of these traits, and I have learned that expressing these traits is crucial to your continued development as an artist and a Vulcan. 

You may not recall this moment from your childhood as you were very small at the time. I will relate it to you. The parents of your peers offered advice at every opportunity on your upbringing. They advised me to halt all visits to Earth, believing your mother’s influence interfered with your education. Confident that I had received enough information, I proposed these changes to your mother. You know her well, and I believe that you will recall the volume and pitch of her voice when she spoke to me. Listening to her, in the moment I believed her behavior only confirmed what these parents had cautioned against. However, I also recognized that she was in no state to reach a resolution on the matter. 

I went to your room to speak with you on the matter, expecting that you did not gain much from visiting Earth. The customs were very different there, and you acted withdrawn around your mother’s family. Instead, I saw that you had been crying. You were drawing on your chalk table, and I saw where your tears had washed away the pigments. You apologized to me because you were only half-Vulcan. You believed that if you performed perfectly in your education, you would become a full Vulcan. 

Hearing you say this, I realized how much I had hurt you. If you do not recall what I told you, I shall remind you. I said to you: “Do not apologize for what makes you unique.” In considering the advice of the other parents, I did not account for the source of their advice. The parents did not know your circumstances or your character. Thus, it had been illogical of me to take advice on your upbringing from people who knew nothing about you. From that moment, I sought out every publication possible to learn what I lacked and what Vulcan parents could never tell me. You may remember that from that moment, I appeared less severe. I encouraged more time with your mother’s family, and I believe you benefited greatly from knowing them. Although I was only treating you as my father had treated me before, I was faced with two facts: One, that I was not my father, and two, that you were not me. 

You are an adult now who has excelled at every endeavor he has taken. For that reason, I remind you what I learned from raising you: Expression of your human nature will allow you better express your Vulcan nature. Do not punish yourself for who you are. Do not punish yourself for what makes you an artist. 

In your account, you speak with great respect and compassion for your companion. You have also mentioned his own unusual heritage. I encourage more conversations with him on his own experiences as his temperament is also unlike the expectations about Klingons. 

I will contact you when the Klingon government contacts us regarding the incident. Your mother has asked me tell you that she hopes you are well. She would like you to know that she loves you and that she misses you. 

I too grieve for your absence. We hope that you will return home soon. 

Your Father


	7. Bribes Preferred

“SoS? SoS!” The hazy screen kept flickering. Doh’Val had the filthy talking-listening piece up to his face. He saw only darkness

Some dim lights came on, revealing his parents’ bedchamber. They growled and grabbed their robes as they sat up in bed. His mother saw the screen and jumped to her feet, hastily tying up her sash. “Doh’Val!” she snapped, running to the console. “Where are you! And what are you wearing? What happened to the clothes you brought?” 

He tugged at his drab, tan robes. “SoS, I will explain, please--” 

“Doh’Val!” His father crowded in next to his mother. “It is the middle of the night! Are you all right?” 

His mother snarled. “Doh’Val, you did not answer me. Where are you!” 

He sighed into the talking-part. “We are not far from Bajor--”

“Where. Are. You. Doh’Val, you will tell me and you will tell me now.” 

If she thought she was angry now…. “Well, the planet itself is just beyond the borders of the Ferengi Alliance--”

Both gasped in horror. “How far are you from Bajor?” 

“We are uncertain. SoS, vav.” He took a deep breath. “We need to money to make a bribe.” 

“What!” 

He took the handheld away from his face a little while both of his parents screamed at him. Even his father, speaking Klingon up to that moment, was so infuriated he had switched to Nepali. He gave them a few moments to calm down before answering. 

“Why could you possibly need a bribe?” 

“We can use it to buy passage to Bajor.” The monitor started flickering. No, just a little longer. He just needed a little more time. “A small amount, I promise--”

“What happened to what we gave you?”

“That money was for Bajor, but we had--listen, we need just enough for a bribe. I would not contact you if--”

His father’s hand on his mother’s shoulder was a telltale sign that his mother was about to break something in the room. She was seething. “Doh’Val. Babu,” said his father, trying to keep her calm. “There is still time. You can apologize to the patron for your absence and no harm will be done, but you must come home. Immediately.” 

“Yes, but we do not have the money which is why we need the bribe. I took enough--please, listen to me. What we need is modest sum. I would not ask if--”

The image jumped as his mother slammed her fist on the nearby wall. “What about all of the other times, Doh’Val? You go days, and days, and days without contact! That captain of yours is asking after you and, oh, we will discuss her when you come home! I am running out of new works to provide to the patron from the collection you gave me to use, Doh’Val. I am already in the middle of a project of my own, and the patron is becoming--” She screamed in anger, unable to finish the sentence. “We had an arrangement!” 

“I can contact him and explain myself--”

“Not before you send us every word of what you will say!” 

They couldn’t be serious. “I have earned the right to speak with him on my own.”

His father stepped in, trying to sound reasonable. “The gratitude of our patron is wearing thin, Doh’Val. Find your mystery musician today or come home. Introduce your friend the Vulcan to the patron. He will be amused. Entertain the patron and you can try again.” 

“I will do nothing by half-measures!”

His mother cut in. “Then find him!”

“Loan me the money!”

The line flickered again. No, no, no. 

“Doh’Val, we have nothing to give!”

The screen flickered again, suddenly going dark. 

“NO!” He banged on the monitor. “I had more time!” He was still shouting in Klingon. He didn’t care. “I had more time!” 

A hand gently on his arm. Vudic. His anger became despondence. They were going to die on this forsaken planet. 

“I may have a contact who can oblige us,” said Vudic in their common tongue. He had been keeping watch for any authorities looking to arrest them or any criminals looking to rob them. “Let us trade places. The call will be brief.” 

The monitor flickered back on. A dial tone and a sudden change in Vudic’s voice. He was speaking his mother’s language. On the other side was a young man, darker than either of them. An easy smile in his voice. He seemed charming. 

And so did Vudic, in his Vulcan way. It was the most relaxed he had ever sounded. He never sounded that way even around Doh’Val….

The call stopped. “We will be on the freighter early tomorrow.”

“Who was he?” He collected their instruments. 

“A cousin, after my generation.” Doh’Val now remembered that his friend was older than his appearance indicated due to how his species aged. “A very resourceful young man. He has helped me procure rare recordings. This is not the first time I have asked him for help, and he is always willing to oblige. He confirmed that he has a contact who will make the bribe on our behalf. We are only required to arrive three standard hours before the freighter leaves.” 

This new information gave him pause. “So. Your cousin is a criminal.”

“Not at all. However, he is extremely familiar with the intricacies of the laws among various planets. What is illegal on one is legal on another. He uses the inconsistencies to his advantage. The subject fascinates him.” He pulled the shroud of his robes over his face. 

Doh’Val did the same, taking the extra step to cover his ridges. The less that people saw of them, the harder they were to identify. “Is he your favorite of all your cousins?”

“I have a regard for him.” It was the closest he would come to saying ‘yes.’ The thought gave Doh’Val discomfort, but he couldn’t figure out why. 

Midday, according to the pale yellow sky. The authorities were out patrolling for beggars like them, the ones who played music for money. He couldn’t believe that they had been reduced to this. But there wasn’t time to self-pity. They needed to eat, rest, and wait. But at least they could get off this planet tomorrow. 

They kept to the shadows as they slunk around corners and down the winding alleyways, avoiding crowds and therefore opportunistic thieves. Vudic had made it clear that he cared not if they were strip naked in the street so long as they protected their instruments and their work. 

They reached their inn with its tiny, bare room. Taking the cheapest room meant a room with mats for bedding and no furnishings, and yet somehow it still felt cramped with the two of them. Pulling off his shroud, Vudic removed one of the wall panels to pull out some of their ill-gotten Starfleet rations. It was the only thing he knew wouldn’t kill him on this planet, and this was no time for experimenting. 

“Doh’Val.I hope that you will indulge me.” He took a carafe of water with two cups for both of them. “This patron that you have told me about. You have never named him or elaborated on his relationship with your family. Why is this?”

“Custom.” He kept wondering how he would explain this to someone from the Federation. “His name is Morath of the House Bar.” Doh’Val stopped with a deep sigh. “It is very complicated.”

His voice was calm and inviting. “I am confident in my ability to understand complicated situations.” He put the carafe on a warmer, a luxury they had acquired while on the planet. It let them make tea with their meal. “Please, indulge my question.” 

The more he learned now, the better. He needed to know why their success was important to him. “My mother comes from the House Auloh. What you must understand is that on Qo’Nos, there is no equality.” 

“I have observed as much. And I understand that anyone who joins the military can expect to gain far more resources than non-military people.” 

“Yes. The House Bar has served the Empire for many generations. Whenever the soldier retires, they become patrons to arts and science. Many houses practice this, and the hope is to be born into a family that receives generous patronage.”

“The House Auloh has received the generosity of the House Bar for many generations.” 

He dumped their rations into their bowls before reaching into their food cubby for the spicy sauce he took on their journey. It had miraculously lasted this long and kept him sane. “Yes. Morath’s father, Mohm, supported my mother’s first research.” He smiled sadly. “She studies farming, the least martial science there is. Morath’s patronage is….” He swallowed hard, forcing down his emotions. “It is everything.” 

Bubbles began forming in carafe. Vudic added the tea and turned off the warmer. “Then I am to understand that Morath made your attendance at the Talas conference possible. I assume you impressed upon him the singular importance of the conference.” 

“That I could introduce the rest of the galaxy to Klingon art. My attendance to a conference well outside our borders would greatly bolster the Empire’s standing. His efforts to gain more respect for the Empire would certainly reflect well on him. The Empire would take notice and reward his family.” 

Vudic’s brow furrowed. “You know that you cannot predict such a thing. That is a very difficult promise to keep.” 

“Other families noticed. A patron who could send one of his artists so deep into the Federation can gain much attention. The Empire has not noticed yet, but his peers have. That is satisfaction enough for him. For now.” 

“What did you promise him to allow this journey?”

He sighed, staring down at the rations. “Music. Music so rare, he would be the first in all the Empire to hear anything like it. He alone would have it. Anyone who wanted to hear it could only do so through him.” 

Vudic’s face grew stony. “Any music belongs to the artist alone.” His voice was cold. “It is the only way that an artist communicate that they were ever alive. It is an extension of their self and their existence. Why did you promise this.”

“What else could I have offered?” His voice cracked. “Tell me. What do I offer instead?”

“Nothing that you have no right to offer.”

“It was the only way he would agree! We promised each other we would take this journey, did we not?”

Vudic stared him down wordlessly.

“Did we not?”

His blue eyes were cruel. 

He felt his throat gagging. “Vudic, answer me. Please.”

Silence. Their worst one yet. He felt weak and alone. If Vudic decided not to help him, then fine. He’d rather die on this planet than go back home and cost his family everything. Morath would be kind to his parents’ loss. So long as his death looked like an accident….

Finally, it broke. Vudic now spoke with kindness, but he had turned away. “Clearly, these are not ideal circumstances to discuss the matter. Our time on this planet has been difficult.” He poured the tea for both of them. 

He didn’t feel hungry, but he also knew that they needed to eat. “As many things as I dislike about my home, I miss it. I miss the land. I think I even miss Morath.” 

“You want what is familiar. Nothing in this city has been familiar or comforting.” He wasn’t making eye contact. He was still angry. Doh’Val had learned that Vulcans could very well feel plenty of emotions. “But soon, we will make contact with Mr. Seu. With any luck, he does not believe us dead.” They had never intended to take this long. 

Another painful silence fell between them. He needed to break it. “I will persuade my patron to give us more leniency. Tell him that he cannot have his music if we cannot have control over where it goes.” 

“We can begin our discussion there.” Sapphire eyes met his. “Are you so certain that he will agree?” 

“No.” 

“And if he refuses?”

“Then I will ask my parents to disavow me for the sake of the family. I can live on Earth. My father’s family will look after me.” 

Notes of concern. “You will live in exile. Your life on Homeworld will cease to exist.” 

“Yes.” 

“But you will speak with your patron and ask him to respect what belongs to us.” 

“Yes.” 

His hand touched Doh’Val’s. “Vulcan is very different from your home. However, if you find that Earth is unacceptable, I can make arrangements for you on my world.” 

His heart fluttered. “I--where would I go?”

“Well, it is most logical that you live in close proximity to me. I can teach you about life on my planet and secure the resources that you will require, perhaps even contact the Federation about sponsorship so you can continue your work.” His grip tightened around Doh’Val’s hand. “You will be cared for.” 

He coughed forcefully to stop the tears from forming. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

“We are friends. I should do nothing less.”


	8. Mistaken Identity

Even worse than the bird-of-prey. They huddled with the freighter’s cargo: laborers. A pathetic lot. All bound for Cardassia Prime to continue reconstruction efforts. They had kept their robes and concealed their faces. The best thing they could do for now was wait. It was dark and hot in the freighter, the way Cardassians kept everything. 

At the moment, the laborers were eating their rations. Bipedal and gaunt, greenish people. “Humanoid” as humans liked to call them. They all looked miserable. Thus far, the two of them had concealed themselves in the shadows. At least they had their own food for the moment. 

“I will gather water for us.” Vudic didn’t bother to listen for Doh’Val’s protest, taking their carafes to the spigots in the middle of the hold. His ka’athyra was slung over his shoulder. No time to stop him.

Doh’Val watched him walk to the spigot. A laborer confronted him, saying something in the laborer’s language. Would a fight break out? 

What...what was he doing? Vudic had his ka’athyra in hand now. He strummed it and immediately the din of conversation quieted around him. Conversations still continued elsewhere in the cavernous hold. He caught Vudic’s glorious, shining eyes. Join me. 

He obliged, collecting everything they still owned as well as his drum. Approaching, he saw the light of life on the laborers’ faces. They seemed mystified as if Vudic were casting magic. He whispered in Vudic’s ear, “Should we start singing?” 

“Yes. Follow my lead.” He began:

A shooting star is not a star, is not a star at all…..

The round Vudic had taught him. Easy enough. 

A shooting star is not a star….  
A shooting star is not a star….

Soon, the entire hold had grown quiet to hear them. It never occurred to Doh’Val that there were people who didn’t hear music often and treated it as a luxury. They were giving these people a small gift. 

Meeting Vudic’s eyes, he knew that they needed to continue for as long as it took. 

A few of the nearest laborers started humming quietly. 

Then a few more behind them.

And then some more still.

Someone started singing along, making up their own words. 

Another joined in.

Then another, and another, and three more, and then ten more. And then the whole hold was filled with singing. 

How glorious that music could uplift the spirits of these people. Doh’Val felt his throat closing, choking up from the sheer beauty of the sight before him. 

Shouting started at the far end of the hold. Crewmembers were coming in to break them up. Oh no.

Vudic had stopped, grabbing up their stuff in one hand and Doh’Val’s collar in another before bolting back toward their shadowy hideout. They couldn’t be seen. 

Singing turned to shouting. People were rushing toward the crewmembers at the far end. A riot had started, and it was all their fault.

But for one sublime moment, they had granted these people hope. 

++++++++++++++  
++++++++++++++

Gul Doth, 

The freighter carrying our labor force guaranteed by the Ferengi Alliance has been delayed following a riot in the hold. The freighter is docked at the former Cardassian Terok Nor station. 

Deckhands have reported the sight of two cloaked figures escaping onto the station. One had failed to cover their face. Deckhands claim that the uncovered figure was of Romulan origin.

There is reason to believe the riot started as part of a Romulan sabotage plot.


	9. Seu Minjaral, the Bajorassian

A most glorious dawn. The clouds looked like trees and feathers today. Yellow sky. Dark gold grass in the light. Breathe deep the dewy air. Flute to the lips. Play. 

It was bright morning when down across the meadow arrived the shadows of travelers coming up the road. They wore black. Oh thank the Prophets, off-worlders. This little villa just beyond town gave him the peace and solitude he desperately needed; off-worlders were a nuisance but far more tolerable than the people from town. He continued composing. 

They were now at the foot of the hill. A Vulcan and a Klingon. He’d seen one and he’d seen the other but never both together. They were like opposites. What made these two come together? He stopped and called down to them:

“This is an old house without a central computer. I hope you know Bajoran.” 

No response; they just kept walking. Time to compose more. 

They stopped short of his front yard, Male Klingon but with less prominent ridges, dark hair loosely pulled back with a trimmed beard and moustache. Sleeves were just to the elbows, displaying a fractal scar spreading like tree branches on his right. Male Vulcan, hair wavy instead of straight like grass, odd blue eyes, and similar sleeve style. The Vulcan’s clothes were sleek and simple, the Klingon’s showing off much more embroidery of black on black. The Vulcan pulled out a small box and touched a few buttons.

“This is a translator. If you can understand, please say ‘yes.’”

Ah, very clever. He set down his flute. “Yes. You are..." He searched his memory. "Vudic?” 

“I am. Seu Minjaral, this is my colleague, Doh’Val, Son of Carl.”

Now he remembered those names. The Vulcan had contacted him a while ago, but never followed up. He assumed that some other project had come up. His good eye scanned them for some sign of how they expected him to greet them. Had they borrowed their clothes from more ample men? Nevermind that. Well, he should stand while continuing this conversation. “You may set your translator down on the table inside.” Vulcans were easy. Klingons could be tricky. “Or we could analyze the recordings that you are so eager for me to hear.” 

“Thank you.” 

What were they expecting--of course. The whole reason they came. “I hope you came for my opinion and not to extract some confession that I am Musician 52366.” He collected his materials, smirking at them. “You and ten others.” 

Not even a flinch. “The trip from the space station alone provided sufficient time to discuss and eliminate that possibility, however appealing. We traveled from our respective homeworlds.” They were young, but they appeared to bear an existential fatigue. Their souls were weary. 

These men came all this way to see him and here he was, looking for a fight so he could embarrass them and sent them packing. He shouldn’t be harsh. “Have you eaten?” He opened the door wide so they’d know to follow him. 

“Yes. Water, please.”

He sat them on a padded bench in the guests’ receiving room which had been built for a more fearful time. The Klingon, Doh’Val, finally spoke up. “Do you practice every morning?” 

Their host nearly dropped his metal cups over the basin in the guests’ room at the sound of his voice. It was beautiful, deep and rich, the kind of voice that could make your ribs rattle; this was a stark contrast to the other’s voice, the perfect range for Bajoran opera. Most members of each species had horribly irritating voices for one reason or another; too nasal, too gravelly, too weak, prone to cracking--astounding because all of them came from fellow colleagues. One would think that people who studied music had decent vocal training; although to be fair, they didn't do much singing--water for his guests, right. Getting a bit distracted. He was now eager to hear them sing, assuming they could. “Most mornings, I compose.” 

His guests traded meaningful glances. “Ambitious. I expect nothing less from one as accomplished as you.” 

Compliments were still off-putting and felt wrong even after so many years. “Thank you.” He handed off the water to his guests. “Where would you like to begin?” He turned to the massive gray tower, high as his head, and keyed in his startup code. The lights all up and down the tower blinked as it went through the system check, chirping and singing.

“Our most recent finding first and foremost, followed by the recordings you described. We came by this recording in our journey to Bajor. You can access it here.” He tapped a button on the small translator box, waiting for Minjaral’s computer to recognize and access the file. “We were curious as to why Musician 52366 has never been studied or investigated. The people we met who knew of this person’s work always expressed fascination but never a desire for study.” 

A chortle left Minjaral’s mouth. Oh no, they were serious. Should he tell them?

They said nothing, but leaned toward him with very, very serious concern. They’d be furious. 

He couldn’t stop grinning despite his best efforts. Did Vulcans ever get angry? Maybe this would do it. He glanced at the front door, making sure it was still open in case he needed to escape. “I tell you this as a friend. In this sector, Musician 52366 is a joke. Hmm, a prank?” He almost wished one of his friends could be here to see this. It was terrible and it was hilarious. “Musician 52366 cannot be real.” 

No anger yet.“Come again?” asked Doh’Val, rightfully incredulous. 

They must be fairly young to to run after ghosts like this. Probably some ambition to make their mark on the galaxy and find everlasting glory. “Recordings that appear seemingly out of nowhere, no way to verify species let alone anything about the individual--musically, each recording is the perfect puzzle for anyone in our field. In fact, there is so much variation that it is impossible for them to originate from single person. Many were verified to come from other, older sources--simply recordings that were once popular and then suddenly forgotten.” 

Vudic touched his colleague’s arm, a gesture to stop the Klingon from flying into a rage which seemed increasingly likely. The Vulcan’s voice remained calm and courteous. “Regardless of what your colleagues believe, your opinion on this recording is important.” 

“You must understand,” said Minjaral with a sigh. The computer tower had already found the file. A blue light indicated the file was ready to play. “Since the recordings emerged, it has been become a custom at conferences in our sector to accuse friends and colleagues of being Musician 52366. One of the conferences held on Bajor even made a tradition every year of electing one of the attendees to the office of Musician 52366.” 

“That is a fascinating conversation for another time. First, please hear what we have brought you.” 

“When the recordings first emerged, I was equally fascinated. I was even convinced that a friend of mine had been beh--”

“Yes, I have no doubt that you have quite a number of fascinating and unique perspectives.” His voice cut like a laser. “But we did not spend one year traveling to your home, bearing great personal danger and financial risk, for drinking water and condescension. Both are widely available and bountiful on our homeworlds.” Disdain flashed for a moment across his eyes. “Play the recording we have brought you.” 

Chirping from the computer. This was a stand-off. These men. They show up on his doorstep, they come into his house, and they expect him to help them chase phantoms. For now, he will humor them. He looked to his open front door as he tapped a button to play. 

Minjaral took a seat across from them and gave the recording its due. Bajoran scale. Instrument with keys, Bajoran tuning. Bajoran folk song, one of the most ubiquitous ones. Ah, not Bajoran lyrics. Something else, familiar but on the tip of his tongue. But there was time still to disappoint his guests. This could very well be a dialect from one of the colonies or just a far older form of Bajoran.

The music suddenly stopped, interrupted by a voice. Someone speaking harshly far from the microphone. A second speaker; the voice of whoever had been singing. Same language as the song. Concrete evidence of a real person behind these recordings--and by the sound of their voice, a species not known for making music. By the Prophets. If this was an hoax, it was the most elaborate hoax that the musical community would ever encounter.

The recording stopped. At last, something real. They had done what no one else had. It was like the first time he saw the Emissary; something he’d never quite believed in was staring him in the face. “Tell me your plans.” 

“Simple. We find Musician 52366 and invite them to perform for colleagues on our respective homeworlds.” 

Doh’Val added with pride, “Klingons, despite our military’s brashness, are a very sophisticated people. Musician 52366 could contribute a great deal to our musical traditions.” 

He detected that a very bombastic speech was about to come, probably about the glory of the Klingon Empire and whatever other cultish devotion to the state that Klingons passed off as patriotism. He always wondered why Cardassia never found an ally in them; perhaps for the same reason that two people who were too similar couldn’t live together. “Are you so certain that this is what they want?” 

“Oh, we considered the possibility,” assured Vudic. “But we believe that we can persuade them through logic and respect. Our arguments are quite sound.” 

They were a very long way from home, and there was a lot about this sector they didn’t understand. “They may resist. They may have their reasons for being so secretive.” He went to the basin to refill his cup. “Do you even know the species?” 

More meaningful expressions exchanged. “Do you?” 

“At the end, the singer did not speak Kardasi or Bajoran. Something else entirely. It could be from the Gamma Quadrant, given that I know of no recording which used elements from the Beta Quadrant.” He grabbed his guests’ cups to refresh them. “Thus, Musician 52366 may be hiding in the Alpha Quadrant. There is fear, corruption, and crime so close to the Cardassian Neutral Zones. We are a long way from the Federation’s protection.” 

Doh’Val waved away the possibility. “I have contacts on my planet. I can persuade them to offer protection to such an accomplished person. There is no reason to hide any longer.” 

They lack of understanding was becoming insufferable. And there was now something deeper he sensed that was burrowing under his skin. His eyes narrowed as he set down their cups. “Why are you so interested in this person?” He took an authoritative tone, no doubt learned from hearing Cardassians as a child. “You want something from them.” 

The energy in the room changed. He saw vulnerability in their faces. Oh no, this was too much. They were about to show him their souls. He wasn’t ready to do the same in return. Not now, please. Any day but today. 

“Minjaral,” said Vudic quietly. “We come from--” he paused, careful with his words. “Great societies. This is not a judgment of other worlds. Qo’nos and Vulcan are highly advanced. However--” 

The other cut in. “Stop, please. Let me tell him the truth.” 

“Doh’Val, I am telling him the truth.”

“What you are telling him are your reasons. This man deserves to hear mine as well.” 

Well, now they had better start explaining themselves quickly. Doh’Val continued, “If we cannot find the Musician, I need you to come back to my homeworld. A brief introduction. The patronage of my entire family hangs on what I bring back. Coming back empty-handed means I lose everything. I live the rest of my days in exile. This trip must be successful.” His deep voice cracked into a high note at the end. "Please, if you come with us, you will be well rewarded and this could be a new opportunity for you. There are corners of the Empire with great esteem for Bajor and its people." 

He remembered this all too well in stories about what Bajor had been like before the Occupation. So much had been lost to chaos and bloodletting in the name of conquest. He also remembered how much he had relied on the kindness of others to have anything to his name for a very long time. In some ways, even today he still relied on it. Minjaral took a deep breath. “I...understand.” He couldn’t make eye contact. “You see what I am, neither fully Bajoran nor Cardassian. Bajor is faltering after two deep wounds, one from Cardassia and the other from the Gamma Quadrant. We are unsure of ourselves. We are confused as a people.” 

“Vulcan and the Empire cannot revert to their more primitive natures, and stagnation is the first sign of regression,” added Vudic. “The thought is untenable. These are our first steps. But we cannot attain our mutual goals without helping each other.” 

He often worried for the soul of Bajor; was it a soul that would accept him as one of its children? His gaze turned to the open door. A beautiful day. He hadn’t planned on starting his day in this manner. He had so much work to do. He will do none of it today and instead care for these travelers. “If you have quarters in the village during your stay, leave them and stay with me.” 

Even the Vulcan betrayed a shred of astonishment. “Your offer is unnecessary, Mr. Seu. We are well accommodated.” 

“It is necessary. We have a great deal to discuss. You will rest better here in my home than in the village. And more importantly.” He stood to fix up the guest quarters. “Neither of you asked me about my left eye or the scar on my face. So, both of you are tolerable enough.”


	10. Letters Back Home

Mother,

We have met Seu Minjaral. He is a kind and generous man who has allowed us to recuperate from our journey at his home. We are taking ground transport to the shuttlecraft which will bring us back to the station. The addition of a third traveler has provided me with opportunity to alter our routine, and for this I am grateful; peaceable change is natural and healthy. We share quarters for the time being, but the change includes each of us having our own cot. I have told you at length about Doh’Val and his sleeping movements. Self-hypnosis is no longer necessary for rest. Mr. Seu suggested that after the perils we suffered to reach him, he would secure more comfortable lodging on a ground transport designed to highlight the local flora for visitors rather than taking us to the station immediately. I expect the journey to take us a few days, but I will write to you at least once during that time.

Mr. Seu possesses remarkable talent, unparalleled to anyone I have ever met. Doh’Val is accomplished in his own right, but I find him comparable to my own ability. Mr. Seu seems to create music as easily as I breathe. I am fascinated by his mind. When I told him of my research, Mr. Seu asked me at length about my work with musics of telepaths and asked to learn details of how to write music for telepaths. He believes that similar techniques could be applied in music for non-telepaths as a means of intensifying a spiritual experience, thereby reaching a higher state of consciousness. This is the first time I have considered to apply my research in this manner.

Because of his talent, I am concerned for his safety. Up until this moment, we have encountered possible dangers because we were simply foreign. Never had either of us experienced danger for our specific heritages. Mr. Seu tells us the polite term for him is “war orphan”--he is half-Bajoran and half-Cardassian, his father’s features dominating his appearance with only his nasal structure hinting at his Bajoran bloodline. His research has been invaluable to rebuilding Bajor’s culture after the Occupation, but the people on the transport treat him like his life is less important than their own, or even mine or Doh’Val’s. I have seen at least one spit on him as he passed. The steward did not fulfill his request until Doh’Val repeated it. I must stress that these incidents are not a constant occurrence; in fact, the majority of people we encounter regard him as they do their fellow citizens, but their politeness is tempered by trepidation. Mr. Seu’s face was harmed when he was young, leaving his left eye severely damaged and a large scar; he explains that people are responding to his disfigurement instead of his heritage. When questioned about why he has never received surgical correction, he did not answer.

I find a sort of kinship in him as I do with Doh'Val regarding our divided identities. I will never forget the way Vulcan children ridiculed me; nor will I forget your fierocity toward those same children. However, Vulcan and Earth never committed unspeakable acts of violence against one another in recent memory. 

I have observed that in many cultures beyond Vulcan, there is a violence even in non-violent actions. Violence is illogical in almost all circumstances. My friendship with Doh’Val and association with Mr. Seu is, on the other hand, soundly logical. We come from different cultures, and our unity has strengthened each of us. I find satisfaction in our relationship with one another. Peace is always logical. However, my brief time on Bajor has shown me things I could never learn at home. While resolution must precipitate from conflict, I have come to learn that any species who has endured violence at the hands of another species can only create more conflict before reaching a resolution. Greater conflict arises, and resolution becomes more logical but less attainable. Mr. Seu frequently explains that he is unperturbed by the behavior of the people toward him. Each time he expresses this assurance, I find less truth than the time before.

+++++++

Illogic has ruled my behavior today. The human parentage you gave me has made the teachings of Surak challenging. Your bloodline causes me suffering, Mother. I grieve for what I cannot change. I cannot change that I have remained away from home for longer than ever before in my lifetime. I cannot change that I have suffered greatly during my time apart from my family. Neither Doh’Val nor Mr. Seu are appropriate to express these sentiments. They do not understand the teachings of Surak. I believe that their lives would improve through deep understanding of Surak’s philosophy, but they must ask me; I have learned from your family that emotional beings are reluctant to accept a philosophy they do not choose to learn about. I want them to study with me for companionship. But studying Surak only deepens my grief, my grief for what I cannot attain and for where I am not. Instead of working, I am using my time in our quarters for intense meditation and all the techniques you helped me learn to soothe my grief. 

Doh’Val spoke to me at length today about his longing to see his family. He expresses these sentiments to me intermittently as we are traveling, and every other instance has left me undisturbed. Today, I listened as the pain in my heart festered. My human heritage and Vulcan heritage frustrate each other; my human heritage wishes to share my pain, and my Vulcan heritage will not allow me to share such pain. He is not family. He cannot understand. He has been a valuable friend, but in that moment I felt--yes, Mother, I felt--alone. 

I have vowed to myself to return to Vulcan once we discover the identity of Musician 52366.

+++++++

This is our last day aboard the ground transport; soon, we will board a shuttle to the space station. My other letters have described my method for identifying the work of Musician 52366. I have studied the vocal diagnostics. I have also prepared my arguments in response to all reasonable explanations behind Musician 52366’s refusal to give up their anonymity. I have advised Doh’Val on expecting the possibility that we will return home without Musician 52366, a possibility Mr. Seu first described. However, Mr. Seu has expressed interest in visiting Qo’Nos. Doh’Val has stated that presenting a Bajoran composer to his family’s patron will accord him more time to persuade Musician 52366 a second time, but I can hear uncertainty when he says this.

I will contact you directly when we have secured our quarters aboard the space station. 

Your Son. 

+++++++

_ Dear Vudic,  _

_ I am relieved that you are on the space station. I do not think I slept well when you were out of touch. I cried for you, my sweet and only child. Your father does not say it, but I know him; neither he nor I could bear to lose you. I am proud of your accomplishments, but most of all I am simply relieved that you are safe. Happiness is what I want for you because you are Human. Peace is what I want for you because you are Vulcan. I miss you so much. You have been away for too long. Vulcan mothers do not coddle their children as Human mothers were taught. I do not care. You are a very talented man, but what my heart sees is the helpless baby I held in my arms after your birth. I cannot wait to see your face.  Your father plays your ka’athyra in the evening and makes questions about your letters a part of his daily routine. We will both speak with you when you contact us. _

_ All of my love,  _

_ Your mother _


	11. The Fabulous Ferengi and His Many Wares

An easy day. No customers, no boss, and no hassles. No spinning dabo wheels making so much noise as people lost all their money. Even the wait staff and the bartenders were taking this as a time to relax instead of fretting about profits. No manager to growl at them, no owner to shriek over lost revenue. Sometimes, business is just a little slow. Except for the holosuites. Even after the owner installed new additional ones, they had a waitlist.

What were the dabo girls to do? Why, have some refreshment at the bar with their favorite Ferengi waiter, Krax--the cutest little troll on the whole station. 

“Maybe I should open my own place,” said Krax. He said it whenever business was slow like this. “Lots of music. Have it on the other end of the promenade. Would you all come with me if I did that? It would be a lot of fun.”

“You know the answer!” said one of the girls with a laugh. The answer wasn’t yes, but it wasn’t no either. 

The waiters suddenly shuffled around, and the bartender began grabbing up plates as three new patrons walked in and took a seat. “Go be charming at them,” snapped the bartender. “And the rest of you! Look alive! Be sexy!” 

The dabo girl walked over with some menus, glancing at the bartender with a snarky frown. There was no way these three had any latinum to their names. The men would be lucky to get any hot water. 

Getting a good look at them, the first thing she noticed was how surprisingly brown the Vulcan was, just a few shades lighter than the Klingon. He had eyes like a rich blue dye used for clergy robes. A strong nose and delicate cheeks. He may have been the most handsome Vulcan she’d ever seen, especially since his black hair was so wavy that it curled just a little when cut in their customary way. Maybe it was her imagination but his eyes were so expressive. “How may I assist you?” she asked, flirting with the kind of sincerity she saved for Krax. The fact that he wore all black right up to his neck just made him that much most mystifying.

“Do you still stock kanar?” The velvet voice came from the most ghastly-appearing of all three. He looked undernourished from childhood. He was sinewy. He was certainly Cardassian from his facial ridges and ugly gray skin, but she stepped back upon realizing that he was also Bajoran. He wore the simplest of earrings, the sign of someone with no family. The giant scar across his face was unmistakably from Bajoran cookware; the scar covered his left eye which was split black and white--clearly blind. 

She couldn’t answer. He was horrible to look at. And worse still, he knew. Sighing, he reached into the inner breast pocket of his tunic and produced two strips of latinum. He was ugly but he was rich. “Take this. You can send us a waiter.” His expression wordlessly added, “So you don’t have to look at me.” 

“No. I will not allow this.” The Klingon’s dark eyes demanded her to stay. A strange, heavy-looking Klingon with forehead ridges not so jagged and a nose not so broad. “Miss, please serve us. My friend may look cruel, but he is a man of kindness and generosity. Please, look at him. What do you see?” 

The war orphan frowned, covering his scar. “Doh’Val, I only wish to dine.” 

“And we will when she brings us what we ask.” He turned back to her, smoothing out his trimmed beard and moustache. “Miss, what do you see?” 

The war orphan cut in. “Just leave us the menus.” 

While they began arguing, the Vulcan stood up and came for the menus. “Kanar, bloodwine, and boiled water.” His beautiful eyes seemed so kind. “It does not matter who serves us.” 

She’d suffer his friend’s ugliness to keep seeing him. “Of course, sir.” 

A good time to leave them alone for a while. She hurried back to the bar for their drinks when Krax appeared at her elbow. “So what do you think of those three?” 

“Well, they have latinum. They are very odd.” 

Krax flashed a goofy grin filled with jagged teeth. “‘Odd’ is how I say ‘opportunity.’ Do you think I have a chance with them?”

The dabo girl glanced back at the table. Two of them were still arguing while the the third tried to mediate with little success. “No way to tell.” 

“I will take that as a ‘yes.’ Let me take their orders.” Krax snatched up the beverage tray before she had a chance to object. Quick little monster. 

The Ferengi sauntered over with the platter. “Gentleman! Please enjoy your beverages. And for today only, your next drink order is free.” By that, Krax meant that he’d pay for them if they gave him some good business. 

All bickering at their table ceased. The three turned to him with expressions that shook him to his core. The Vulcan was staring into his soul. The Klingon was looking at him like he was a ghost. The war orphan--he couldn’t read. It was the look that the girls gave him from time to time when he said something so full of truth they wanted to cry. Did they know him? ...Were they assassins? 

Do something to break the silence. “Well! Please let us know if you have any requests!” Go. Go. GO. 

“Sir, we have a request.” 

So maybe they could give him something he wanted. He put on his least offensive smile. “Yes, sir.” 

The Vulcan had spoken up. “We are interested in purchasing unusual products.” 

Not good enough. They might be just tourists. “The Promenade offers a wide variety of vendors.” 

His tone remained firm. “The vendors on the Promenade do not offer what we wish to purchase.” 

Closer but still not good enough. “That is unfortunate, sir.” 

“But we have reason to believe that what we are seeking can be obtained here on the space station.” 

Closer. “If you specify the product, I could offer better advice.” 

The three at the table traded meaningful glances, and then the Vulcan laid three strips of latinum on the table. Krax felt his pulse jump at the sight of them. No one had offered him even that much for information alone. “This is our offer. If you are willing to arrange a meeting with you and a contact aboard the station, you will receive this.”

Close enough. He reached for the latinum.

The Vulcan covered the strips. “There will be more if you fulfill our request.” 

Stupid overly smart Vulcan. “Fine. The workday ends in four hours. Meet me at the other end of the Promenade.” 

Well. This was going to be an interesting transaction…..


	12. Transaction Sub Rosa

The other end of the Promenade didn’t actually exist. The space station was a giant circle. However, he always said “the other end” to see if the people asking were worth his time. Krax had given himself just enough time to change into respectable business clothes to let them know he wasn’t a fool or a beggar. He was a lot more than just a waiter, and they better understand that quickly. 

He walked down the Promenade to his preferred negotiation locale, the Terran eatery that served whatever it was the people ate there. Three minutes and if they didn’t show, he would disavow ever speaking to them or any knowledge he might have. 

The war orphan was waiting for him at the entrance. Good. He gestured inside wordlessly for them to enter. 

Krax preferred doing all of his business here because, no matter what, at least half of the clientele in the eatery were from Starfleet. Just another way to scare off people who didn’t know how to be sneaky or people looking to take advantage. In any case, were they really doing anything wrong? 

Walking in, Krax didn’t see any of the regulars but still plenty of blue and black, yellow and black, and red and black uniforms. He was led to a table far in the back where the lighting was bad. Idiots. They were already drawing attention, but moving tables would just bring even more attention. 

He took a seat, noticing how close the Klingon and Vulcan sat next to each other. Was that normal? He couldn’t remember. The Vulcan spoke in low tones. “We are pleased to see you. Will your contact join us?”

“I cannot say. I still don’t know what you want.” He had to tilt his head to keep one ear pointed toward them and the other at the rest of the room. So far, just a couple comments about how odd the four of them seemed together. Good. 

“We understand that music may be purchased on the station.” 

He frowned in confusion. “Yes. The station’s gift shop has quite a collection.” 

“We wish for the music that you may offer.” 

What could they possibly want? And then Krax scoffed, raising his voice. “If you wanted to commission a song, you should have asked sooner!” 

The three suddenly pulled away, murmuring among themselves in hushed, hurried tones.

“I can still hear you!” He pointed to his lobes. 

The war orphan countered. “Then tell us what we need to know.” 

Krax waved down a waiter and took his time making an order. This place had the decency to offer more than just Terran beverages. He’d take all the time he wanted after this trio of doofbeetles pulled their little stunt. “I take requests for my client. They write and perform anything you could want. The more details, the better. It is all very routine." Wasting his time! People who wanted songs just ask during his shift. Simple! This place was for actual business. "So what is this for? You want a new recording of an existing piece or something for a special occasion like--I don’t know, however you three court females.” 

The Vulcan started. “My name is V--”

“Stop. No names.” 

His blue eyes narrowed. “Does anonymity make the transaction easier?”

Water came for him while he waited for his order. “No. I just find you three irritating.” He took a big gulp, followed by a little belch. “Why all the secrecy? If you knew that I could give you a recording, you come find me while I’m on break. Everyone knows that!”

“I do not follow.” 

“Someone talks to me, I talk to the person I know, and a couple days later, you get a song for your wife that you tell her you wrote just for her instead of buying her a real present.” He shrugged, taking another gulp. “Simple.”

The Klingon interrupted. “So allow us to meet your composer.”

“No. They never talk to customers. Hurts the creative process.” Finally, the actual drink he wanted arrived. “So, do you know what you want?” 

The Vulcan set a small black chip on the table. “Start with any of the songs provided on this drive. Reconstruct them in the Bajoran tradition.”

Simple enough. “Their origin?”

“Earth. They are very old Human works.” 

“Haven’t gotten requests with regard to those in a while. Earth, though, that is complicated. More languages than a place like Vulcan or even Bajor. This gets a high price.” 

“I assure you that we are willing to pay any price.” 

“Hmph. Three strips now, three strips at time of delivery. This will take at least five days.” 

“How much can we pay to expedite?” He placed five strips on the table. “Will this be enough?” 

Keep a level head. “For that, I can guarantee no more than five days.” 

The three looked at each other and nodded. “That is agreeable.” 

Krax snatched up the strips, stuffing them into the breast pocket of his waistcoat. “Five days, then. Find me on my break.” 

“Actually.” The Vulcan placed a few more strips on the table. “Would you be willing to bring them to our quarters for us to inspect? We are in the visitors’ quarters.” 

He took those as well. “For one half-bar of latinum.” 

“That is agreeable.” 

Krax couldn’t help his grin, standing from the table with both beverages. “Pleasure doing business. Enjoy yourselves while you’re here.”


	13. Musician 52366

Five days. A relaxing five days, actually. Minjaral spent much of his time at the temple and, to his surprise, the clergy welcomed him as simply another devotee of the Prophets. Waiting in their quarters, he was currently playing with a melody he remembered from one of their elusive musician’s recordings. Whoever this was, or whoever these people were, he saw true talent in their work. 

He had retreated to his own room, letting his younger companions fret over their discovery in the main part of the suite. Over the noise of the station and the air exchange in his room, he could hear Vudic entreating Doh’Val to remain calm. They were reviewing their strategy for compelling this Ferengi waiter to give them his contact. Minjaral didn’t see much point. Moreover, something about how the two men related to each other seemed...off. But then again, the only Vulcans he’d ever met were in passing at conferences. And he only knew Klingons entirely by reputation and the occasional visit to his region of Bajor. And still, he saw a deeper tension between them which colored their friendship. It was unsettling.

The door chimed. Minjaral finished his current thought and joined the others. 

Their diminutive contact strode in wearing the characteristically flamboyant colors of which Ferengi were so fond. Gauche, in his own opinion. But eye-catching. Clearly the function. “Gentleman, I think that my contact fulfill your request superbly!” He flashed a jagged grin. “No need to thank me, of course. The latinum is gratitude enough.” 

Minjaral took a seat next to the Bajoran-tuned keyboard in the room, opting to contemplate the stars outside their window. No need for his intervention at the moment. He did not expect too much out of this meeting other than a new name to chase down. The Ferengi could be bought at a fairly small price. 

Vudic took the chip and popped it into the computer console above the keyboard. Music began, sweet and pleasing.

“My composer was very pleased with this rendition of, um, ‘Vengeance Boils in My Heart’ as I believe. Difficult, but my composer’s best work if I do say so myself.” Krax flashed another toothy smile, even gesturing along. “The quality of the sound itself is superlative.” 

Undoubtedly similar to the other recordings they could identify. They were very, very close. Vudic and Minjaral looked to each other, nodding in agreement. “Commendable effort.” 

“No.” Doh’Val glowered by the door. 

“No?” asked Vudic. “I do not follow your logic.” 

“Go to your composer and ask them to come here and defend their work instead of asking some servant. Your composer should have the decency to show their face.” 

Minjaral needed to diffuse this situation before they lost an opportunity. “There are cultural differences,” he interjected, standing from his seat. He wouldn’t let rigid adherence to nonsense customs chase Krax away. They were too close. “Cultural concerns, you see. For Klingons, it is very rude to not show one’s face when exchanging money.” 

Doh’Val grumbled. “I do not believe that this is a genuine recording.” 

He was trying to compel a confession, but this manner would give them nothing. Krax screwed up his ugly little face in a sneer. “My composer worked very hard on this piece,” he retorted through gritted teeth. 

Minjaral stepped between them. “Perhaps there is some confusion. We have yet to meet your composer, after all. Could your composer pay us a visit?” Their colleague must restrain his friend soon or else Minjaral would punish him like the child he was being. 

Krax straightened up to seem taller. “No.” He glared at Doh’Val. “My composer visits no one.” 

“Because there is no composer,” snapped the Klingon, leaning around Minjaral. “These recordings have been stolen.”

Vudic finally came over to control his companion. “We have no evidence thus far to support such accusations.” His tone demanded that Doh’Val reclaim his composure, like listening to a Cardassian commander discipline a favored subordinate. “We should take more time to review what we were provided.” 

“We know that many of the recordings have been misattributed. Perhaps all of the recordings are misattributed. What more evidence do we need when a Ferengi is involved?” 

Their courier pressed closer now, trapping Minjaral between the two warring sides. “Apologize, Klingon!” Minjaral hoped no one noticed his hand fall to the knife concealed on his thigh.

“I am very familiar with the music of your people!” The haughtiness rang out in his deep, rolling voice. “The music is trite, superficial, and trivial. Subject matter appeals to basic instincts, and the music is created for manipulation, not as art. There is so little art of substance among your people, I even hesitate to call it civilized!” 

“You want civilized? Then you will receive civilized!” Krax marched over to the keyboard.

Now Minjaral found himself trading tense looks with Vudic, both trying to understand where this behavior was coming from and what would happen next. Had there been some distant war between Klingons and Ferengi to cause this much anger? 

Krax began hammering on the keys. The keyboard was gushing steam. Music. The music was steam. Krax’s mouth was belting out music-smoke-music. 

Everything around him felt unreal; the past five days had been a dream. 

Yes, most certainly a dream. 

He was alone in this room, watching this--this being, this entity made of music and color. 

He was real. 

This entity was real. 

It was singing. 

No, he wasn’t ready to leave his body. Not yet. He didn’t want to be alone. 

“Mr. Seu.” Vudic’s hand was on his shoulder. The space station was real. He was real, and his companions were real. The moment was already fading like a lost memory. 

He came back to the other two arguing. Doh’Val seemed pleased with the number of clever remarks he most certainly had lobbed while Krax had shown no sign of yielding. 

“What are they saying?” Minjaral still couldn’t quite make out the voices across the room because some part of him was still lost in the stars. 

Vudic whispered in his ear as if sensing what the other needed. “Krax has demonstrated that his voice matches that on the recording provided. Doh’Val, however, now insists that Krax could have easily practiced that piece to better hide the deception. He believes in his theory on the grounds that Ferengi are known for incredible vocal range, so what is impressive for a human is no feat for Krax.” 

He couldn’t help leaning on Vudic a little to steady himself. “What do you think?”

“Krax has musical prowess and is clearly one of the voices from the initial recording I gave you. But at the moment, I lack information to support either his claim or that of Doh’Val.” 

Suddenly, Krax’s voice rose a shout. “I challenge you to a duel!” 

“Then you will surely die!” 

“A musical duel, doofbeetle!” Krax sat down at the keyboard, stretching his fingers. Already, Minjaral noticed that the Ferengi had a good posture but it was one that clearly came from self-teaching and observation, not formal training. “Show me what you pass off as talent, Klingon.” 

Vudic sighed through his set jaw. “I must stop this.”

Minjaral held him in place. “No. This will tell us everything we need to know.” 

He raised his voice to address the two warring sides. “Let us put guidances in place---”

Doh’Val ignored him entirely, barking at their liaison, “If you lose, you give us your composer.” 

Krax growled back. “And if you lose, you give me every slip of latinum you have.”

Minjaral had to take charge because his two young companions didn’t understand the right way to negotiate with Ferengi. “A perfect proposal. Each will take turns, starting with Doh’Val. Win by forfeiture.” 

“I agree.” The Ferengi began practicing scales on the keyboard. “Klingon, go get whatever piece of garbage you pass off as an instrument.” 

Doh’Val sneered. “Too clever for your own good. I play a drum. I could play for hours.”

“And never make any music. Singing, then. I will make it easier for you. Both of us sing. The first one to ask for water loses.” 

Vudic had prepared the cups, setting one in a table between the two. He handed Minjaral his flute, his ka’athyra in the other hand. While Krax practiced, he murmured in the other’s ear. “Keep him engaged. I need more information on his species. I sense he is deceiving us but not in the manner that Doh’Val believes.” 

The room filled with the din of people warming up their fingers and voices. Minjaral eyed the Vulcan, noticing the tablet nearby. What was he trying to find? 

Doh’Val began. The music made the walls of their cabin translucent, revealing the stars and emptiness all around them. So much cold beyond their tiny world. But the warm deep voice, like dark and rich soil, gave comfort. Soil around him, soil like the kind of Nima’s garden. Nima wearing Marfun oil to perfume black hair which dragged on the floor when completely let down. Nima who colored her crest with green instead of blue. He was standing in a hole in the garden and she was calling him for lessons but he couldn’t hear her words…

The station walls came back but they shimmered like mist, the great cold with its star still very close. Smoke from Krax and from the keyboard swirling and blending with the walls, shimmering like the heavenly lights he sometimes saw under cover of dark over the town where Nima kept her home. It was morning and night at the same time with the shimmering lights, ghostly greens and blues and reds above him. The entity was here with others….

Good soil. Warm soil. Sun-baked rocks to rest his head. Lying in the warm-ish cool-ish mud while Sika drummed on the hill above him, practicing. He should be practicing too. The sky above held a million tiny gold-colored cracks. Just like a clay bowl. The moon was out in the middle of the day. 

The moon was high in the night sky. Shimmers above the house. Shimmers in the house and around his bed. Shimmers following him to the woods when he snuck out with the other children. The entity was here, somewhere. 

The gate was open. The Celestial Temple was open. The Temple’s light was pulling on him. It compelled him to join the Temple. Blazing, glorious, warm light. The Prophets were calling him to join them and feel their embrace. Would he meet the emissary? Would they love him as Nima had loved him? 

No. Wait, I need more time.

I’m not ready. 

Please, let me stay. 

I can’t leave yet. 

I’m so afraid to go.

I’m too afraid. I don’t want to be alone….

“Seu Minjaral. Seu Minjaral. You are on Federation space station Deep Space Nine located in Bajoran space. Repeat what I have told you.” Vudic held him by the shoulders, propping him against the wall. He kept a calm, low tone--gentle but with authority. 

He complied, still groggy, and then asked, “Where are they?”

 

“Doh’Val and Krax have paused momentarily out of concern for you.” 

“Krax,” he breathed, his head swimming. “He is our man.”

“Yes, I do not doubt that he is Musician 52366. You complimented both musicians until the wormhole opened outside our window. You then came over here insisting that you were afraid, but you did not say why.” 

“Did I hurt anyone?”

 

“No. However, you appeared distressed and began scratching the walls.” His tone became hard. “We must discuss this episode at a later time.” 

Krax inquired from the other side of the room. “Who is Musician 52366?” 

Before Doh’Val had a chance to let his arrogance speak, Minjaral pushed away the Vulcan to stand up. “The reason why we are here. Vudic, play the recording you brought me.” 

A few commands, and then music began. Just a recording this time. He could breathe again. 

Krax became defensive. “Where did you get this?” he demanded. 

“Unimportant,” answered Vudic. “This is a recording of you.” 

“Well, it is my composer.” His voice betrayed the lie.

“Then tell us their name.” 

Confidence came back “No, no, no. That is not good for business.”

Minjaral would not leave negotiating to the greenhorn. He picked up a case and set it on the table next to the Ferengi, opening it to produce three bars of latinum. He set them on the keyboard.

Krax never flinched. “A good bribe but I think you underestimate my price.” 

He knew to start low. In response, he turn around the case to reveal seventeen more bars to speed up this negotiation.

Krax's resolve was waning quickly. "That, that is a very big offer--" he stammered, sweat beading on his ridges. Then he found his voice again. "But it is not enough." 

He came prepared to negotiate. Picking up another case, he opened it to reveal another set of twenty latinum bars. 

Krax gasped like the wind had been knocked out of him. His other companions stood on the other side of the room, fuming silently or watching with confusion as was appropriate for each one's character. 

"This is all I can offer. You can tell us, or you can have nothing." The Ferengi's hand jumped for a bar, and he slapped it away. "Not until you tell us the name of your composer." 

"Give me one bar--"

"We know that it is you." 

More than anything, Krax seemed shocked that anyone of them were clever enough to figure it out. "Then what was the point of all of this?! And when do I see my latinum? And why are you ever here?" 

Vudic stepped toward them, ready with all of his methods and arguments of persuasion. "There is someone called Musician 52366 who began composing, recording, and release their work a little over ten years ago. They have many contradictions and are a puzzle to scholars like us. They sing in different languages, about different topics, using different musical traditions, and different instruments. It was only during my time on this station that I realized the only possible way for someone to produce such music was by living on this very space station. Tell me, Krax. Do you play any Gamma-Quadrant instruments?" 

He refused to answer, eyeing each one of them. 

"We shall address that question at another time. We have a proposition. You will come with the three of us to Qo'Nos and perform for a family whose interests lie in new forms of art."

Doh'Val finally spoke up. "No." 

Minjaral saw unmistakable rage flashed across Vudic's face before it fell once again into a mask of stoicism. The journey had cut their relationship to the quick, and now this threatened to drive their schisms wider. He turned a serene expression toward his companion. "I do not understand." 

"I cannot bring this, this person to my patrons! I will lose my reputation!"

Krax snorted with a nasty grin. "Then I must join you three! You have convinced me already!"

Doh'Val was seething. "No! Out of the question! I refuse to travel with him!" 

"Worried that I will outshine you?" 

"I am concerned that I will lose everything. And if I lose everything, you will lose everything too."

The Ferengi began playing scales, a sing-song quality in his voice. "You have no idea how much I have already lost and gained back. I could lose everything five times again and I would never complain about it as long and loud as you would. It's settled. I'm coming." 

"I forbid it!" 

Vudic's stoicism showed a small crack. "I demand an explanation for this unfriendliness." 

Krax stood up, grabbing one of the water cups. "Well, I think it is very obvious. I know you people. Vulcans think that they are the best at logic. Klingons think that they are the best at war.” He downed the one and grabbed the other. “And both of them think that their cultures are so much more superior than everyone else--don't interrupt me.” He hissed at Vudic. “Everything I say is true. The fact is that neither of you can stomach me. You came all this way to find me, right? What did you think I was? Bajoran? Trill? Would you have come this far if you knew that your wonderful musician was a "troll" as the rest of you like to call us?" 

Doh'Val answered. "No." 

"I thought as much. At least you respect me enough to tell the truth." Krax had made his way to the beverage replicator and asked for ‘favorite number 3.’ "But instead of a species that you think is your equal or is just a little beneath you, it was me. And you really do not like that fact." 

"Our personal opinions on facts do not matter," objected Vudic. "If we are presented with facts, we must evaluate them based on the information we are provided. You are Ferengi. You also possess great talent and creativity. Therefore, it is in our best interest to take you with us." 

Doh'Val went for the exit. "Then I shall stay here on the station!" He disappeared through the sliding doors without any mention of where he was going or when they could expect him to come back. 

Unmistakable rage once again flitted across the Vulcan's face as he watched his friend leave. Turning back to the other two, his eyes seemed harsh despite his calm features. "Before you come with us, it is important that you respect our cultures. The way you treat certain individuals in your society is not compatible with our cultures. You must act accordingly." 

"Are you talking about females?" He chose to pick his fingernails instead of looking at either of them. 

"Yes." A note of exasperation. "They command great respect in Klingon and Vulcan cultures."

"Yes, the right kind of female, you mean.” He made no effort to look up. “The rest of them, not so much." 

Minjaral was now certain that he had witnessed his first instance of a Vulcan being offended at something. Vudic appeared unable to speak for a few moments. It was visceral. "No." His tone became acrid. "Every single one. No matter her heritage, her disability, or her path, every single woman on our planets is granted the right to a life that suits her. Every woman, every man, every person. We tolerate nothing less." 

Krax was incredulous. "No. That, that--you just make a good show…."

Vudic's voice was fierce in its calmness. "If you cannot respect the core values of our cultures, then we have no choice but to leave--"

"No!" Krax's voice had suddenly become higher and sweeter. "Who do you want me to meet?" 

Now Vudic was returning to himself, thankfully. "It is my hope to introduce you to my own colleagues. Many of them have built reputations as valuable members of their circles. One of them was my mentor during my education."

"Is your mentor female? Are all of them female?"

"Yes, she is and so are many of my colleagues." 

Krax's eyes were watering for some reason. He kept wiping them. "Do people think that they are the best?" 

"In their field of study on my planet, without question." 

He sat back down at the keyboard, rubbing his sleeve against his nose and his eyes. His voice was weak and wavering. “Tell me. The women on your planet. What do they wear?” 

A strange question, but he also remembered that the Ferengi here on the station tended to create holosuite programs that frequented demeaned the programmed people through various forms of dress. Vudic responded, “They wear whatever they want.” 

A high whine and then the Ferengi was clutching himself, weeping openly.

Seeing that Vudic was utterly at a loss and could not decipher what led to this moment, Minjaral slid up onto the keyboard bench. He touched the other’s shoulder, still not sure for what reasons he should offer comfort. 

The moment he felt the touch, the Ferengi suddenly flinched and straightened. Krax hiccupped, grabbing at the collar of his jacket. The words slipped out through sobs, “I could wear whatever I wanted.” 

Now the picture came into focus. He and Vudic looked to each other. This person was not what they seemed. They had suffered under the arbitrary cruelties of Ferenginar. The idea that someone was immediately given a lower value at the moment of their birth was one he knew all too well. Minjaral gripped their shoulder tighter and whispered, “Could you not before?”

A shaky sigh escaped their lips as they pulled at their ears, two large pieces coming off to reveal that they were prosthetics to enhance their much smaller ears. “Yes, yes, yes,” they bawled. 

Vudic stiffly took a seat on the bench on their other side, keeping a distance. “Is Krax what you call yourself?”

The tears kept coming. “No. Prina. Ferengi female. But everyone must call me Krax so they will never know I am not male.”

He and Vudic mirrored each other’s confusion, realizing that they had never encountered anyone but men from Ferenginar. 

“Females were not allowed to wear clothes or write music or do anything for themselves.” Krax--Prina, now--leaned toward the war orphan, sniffling in between her words. “Everything is always for the males. I wanted to do something for myself, so I left. I can never go back, no matter how much I want to return.” 

Vudic interjected. “Why do you long for the people who treated you poorly?”

He knew what to say. “Because even if our homeworld was a miserable one, it is the only one we know. We have nowhere else.” 

Prina nodded, adding, “My family is still there. My mother and sisters are still there. They cannot even know that I am still alive.” 

She was nothing like the bombastic Krax just moments ago. Despite how little he knew, Minjaral felt a kinship with her. “You can be ‘Prina’ when you come with us. It will not make a difference.”

She turned away, hugging herself. “No, no, no. I--” Fresh tears started. “I am just not ready yet. Please. Let me be Krax for a while.” 

Vudic stood up, gesturing for his colleague to join him. Once near the door, he began, “I will find Doh’Val and relay this new development. I believe that he can be persuaded with this information.”

“I will stay with her.” This was a good time for Vudic to leave instead of trying to have a conversation about what he insisted they discuss….

He seemed unsatisfied. “I must know what prompted your strange behavior during the performances. If it will be a part of our future collaborations, it is right to tell us.” 

At least he wasn’t pressing for information right this second. “I promise to explain what you need to know. For now, we must devise a plan to help Doh’Val. And you, for that matter.”


	14. Dispatches to Qo'Nos

Mother and Father,

We have found what we sought. Vudic, as a Federation citizen, convinced a small Starfleet ship to bring us as far as the borders of the Empire. Seu Minjaral, the musicologist I described to you, has agreed to join us. I will contact you shortly once we have boarded the ship.

Doh’Val

++++++++++++++  
++++++++++++++

You Who Are My Parents,

We have tendered passage to Qo’Nos for ourselves including Seu Minjaral and Musician 52366, a Ferengi by the name of Krax. His skill is unlike any that I have ever encountered, and I believe that Doh’Val’s patrons will find him satisfactory. A Starfleet ship is providing us safe transport into Klingon space. I shall contact you as I am able. 

Your Son

++++++++++++++  
++++++++++++++

_ Honorable Morath, Son of Mohm, of the House Bar: _

_ It is with humility that I offer myself to your service in gratitude for the generosity you have bestowed on myself and my family. My journey far beyond the borders of our Empire have borne heavy fruit: the mysterious composer known as Musician 52366 has requested an audience with your Honor; however, the composer is a private and cautious person who has asked that I do not reveal their identity at the moment until they are formally introduced to you.  _

_ In celebration of this successful sojourn, I humbly request an opportunity to present a series of new compositions in a private concert for the benefit of the House Bar.  In collaboration with my colleague Master Artist Vudic and the composer Maestro Seu Minjaral, these new compositions will recreate through song the trials we suffered in service to the glory of the Empire.  We also wish to display the talents of Musician 52366 in our presentation.  _

_ My father has taken it upon himself to make a formal request of invitation when we have reached the safety of the Empire. I await the opportunity to dedicate my next compositions to the glory of your house.  _

_ With honor and humility, for the glory of Emperor Kahless and The Klingon Empire, _

_ Doh’Val, Son of Carl, of the House Nakarmi _

++++++++++++++  
++++++++++++++

_ MEMORANDUM  _ _   
_ _   
_ __ TO THE 13th CORPS OF THE HIGH IMPERIAL VANGUARD

_ Let it be known that the target, Federation citizen known as Vudic, has landed on Qo’Nos in the company of Imperial citizen Doh’Val, Houses Nakarmi and Auloh, as well as two other individuals who are expected to receive full processing upon reaching their destination, {REDACTED}, the home city of House Nakarmi. Customs officials has been instructed to relay information of the additional individuals to the Vanguard upon processing.  _

_ The target’s other associates, Federation citizen Aafia and Federation citizen Talok, appears to be the target’s parents. All off-worlders are currently under sponsorship from the House Auloh and members of the House Bar. The target is considered of high interest and low threat to the Empire due to the information and knowledge which the target may possess (See report concerning incident on the ship commanded by Vanguard novice Captain Kagga, House Gorko).  _

_ Vanguard members of the 13th Corps stationed nearest the target are instructed to monitor target’s movements. Vanguard members are authorized to engage target at the discretion of their commanding officer.  _

_ No Vanguard members are authorized to eliminate and dispose of  target or target’s associates. Information on target and associates must be collected and evaluated. In addition, Vanguard members are not authorized to eliminate and dispose of Imperial citizens who associate with the target.  _

_ [TO BE FILED IN DOSSIER “FEDERATION CITIZEN VUDIC, SON OF TALOK”] _


	15. Un-Domestic Un-Bliss

The most uncomfortable meal Krax had ever witnessed, let alone participated in as a guest. Amid the finery of the dining room with its tapestries and wood-stone walls stood a square table with austere, high-back benches--all of it bolted down, making escape more difficult. 

Nearest to the front door, Vudic with his mother and father. Next to the kitchen’s entrance, Doh’Val and his parents. Krax and Minjaral, the only ones even bothering to eat the meal before them, sat with their backs to a wall. There was just no way to leave. Even in their great wisdom where they arranged their own travel, they could not escape the truth; they would have to watch this domestic play in all its melodrama. 

“You have a lovely home, Madame Tavana.” Minjaral was visibly put-off by the seething silence which enveloped both hosts and guests. “My own pales in comparison.” 

Doh’Val’s mother was how Krax imagined the female Klingon warriors he’d seen in his life looked after retiring to have a family--black hair with a layer of white ash, rounded angles which softened the face and body, and scars on the fingers. Not to mention the usual signs of age like lined features and the crinkles around the eyes. The way she coolly acknowledged a man’s compliment with a nod and bat of her eyes was intensely arousing.

A ear-splitting clatter. Minjaral dropped his utensil into his bowl. “Come to a resolution over whatever it is you are fighting about. Otherwise, I am returning to Bajor.” Be more gentle with your tableware, clod!

Suddenly, everyone--well, everyone except the fathers--were speaking at once. The voices of their two traveling companions blended all too well, but Madame Tavana’s strident voice layered and clashed with Madame Aafia’s smoky tones. Is anyone even aware of their volume? 

“Please stop, the translator is mixing up everything you say.” Krax, on the other hand, could pick out what everyone had been saying thanks to the implant in his ear canal. 

Doh’Val prevailed. “There is no reason for you to leave us. You are welcomed into our home and to stay as long as you may wish.” 

“My desire to leave has nothing to do with hospitality.” He loudly drummed his fingers on the ornate table. “Madame,” he inquired to his hostess, “I was told of harmony and even friendship amongst your families.” 

“Yes.” Madame Tavana’s dark eyes were lit with fury. “But there are other concerns.” 

Madame Aafia’s smoky voice sounded like glass crunching under a shoe. “The troubles of your family are hardly the fault of my son.” She had her own kind of command that Krax found almost irresistible, underscored by the beautiful orange loose clothing draped over her body and even covering her hair. 

“I strongly disagree,” she sneered. “Ever since the two of them took passage on an Imperial ship and failed to do so much as write, we have been pestered without end. Captain Kagga contacts us all too often about your son. Yours. She contacts us without regard for the time.” Looking at her son, she added coldly, “And she calls about you as well, but for different reasons.” Her son winced. 

Madame Aafia dismissed her with an eyeroll. “If she is being too much, tell her to stop.” 

Her voice heightened. “Captain Kagga asks with the authority of the Imperial Vanguard!” Her fist pounded the table and the tableware hopped around. “They do not make such inquiries without reason! What has he done! Why are they so interested in him!”

As Madame Aafia took a breath to spit fire at her opponent, a touch on her shoulder from her husband suddenly deflated her. Before that moment, Talok hadn’t moved since they sat down. The two spoke in low tones to each other which Krax heard something of before their hostess pounded the table again. “I can hear the translator’s delay! You will speak our common tongue and nothing else so long as you are in my house!”

Talok’s difference with his son stood in stark relief. While Vudic couldn’t help his wandering eyes or the occasional sigh, his father was like stone. Even his face seemed like the red mountains she saw in pictures of their homeworld, a contrast to his gray robes. 

At last, he spoke, slowly. “During the absence of Vudic, unknown people contacted She Who Is My Wife.” His voice was like his son’s but lacked clarity or youth, sounding even grainy. “We do not know who they are. These people make contact to ask questions about your son. They ask questions in writing so we do not see their faces.” And then, his voice shifted. Krax felt a wave of fear through his ribs. “Your words are based on the belief that these questions can only be about someone who lacks honor or whose family lacks honor. Logic states--”

“--not another word!--”

“--that if anyone is receiving these--

“--will not tolerate--”

“--then they must--” 

Doh’Val’s very brown and stout father stood up from his chair, reminding Krax that he even existed. “Do not finish that sentence, Talok.” A plea or a threat or something of both. 

Only a flicker of the old Vulcan’s dark eyes acknowledged that anyone had even spoken. The silence at the table made the rest of the house’s ambient noises thunder in Krax’s ears. 

“Please.” 

A nod. At last, some release of tension. 

Doh’Val’s father--Carl, was it?--took his seat. “We are not enemies. We are civilized. We did not know that you were also contacted. Clearly, there is more than either of us understood.”

“Then a question remains,” said Talok. “Why are we being contacted about our children?”

At that moment, all eyes fell on Doh’Val and Vudic--the source of all future pain, consternation, and peril.


End file.
